<\/p>\n
While scrolling through my TikTok For You page the other night, one of my favorite influencers held up the viral hair serum that I\u2019d been eyeing for months. To my surprise, she began brutally criticizing the product, warning viewers against buying it. For the next 60 seconds, I felt a rush of relief seeing an influencer being honest and urging me to save my money.\u00a0<\/p>\n
But that relief only lasted for a moment. Just as I was about to scroll away, she pulled out three drugstore \u201cdupes<\/a>\u201d that, according to her, were better than the original. Her previous honesty had convinced me of her credibility, compelling me to trust her cheaper recommendations without real substantiation.<\/p>\n Successfully avoiding one expensive serum only to buy $36 worth of cheaper alternatives is exactly the trap of modern \u201cdeinfluencing.\u201d<\/a> While the deinfluencing trend markets itself as a rebellion<\/a> against consumerism, it ends up disguising another sales pitch as honest advice, ensuring that consumers are still spending money.<\/p>\n Deinfluencing is inherently flawed because social media platforms are designed<\/a> to drive consumption. Platforms convert attention from engagement \u2014 clicks, views and interaction \u2014 into advertising revenue.\u00a0 Content that generates viewership, like product-related posts\u00a0encourages spending behaviors and habits that keep the consumer active. As a result, deinfluencing isn\u2019t actually separate from the consumerist ecosystem that social media platforms are built to sustain.<\/p>\n