Living in L.A. for the past two decades, I’ve become immune to many a visual WTF. Post-rhinoplasty teens with bandaged noses and bruised eyes cruising $5,000 bags at Barneys no longer shock. Prides of taut moms with the exact same shade of buttery highlights and identical plump pouts don’t raise a brow. Even matrons with pulled-taffy faces and staple scars behind their ears barely move me.

But lately, I’ve noticed a phenomenon far subtler than these, and yet more disturbing: young women, sometimes very young, their lips suspiciously full, cheekbones hyper-defined, skin seemingly airbrushed, like filtered selfies come to life.