Coco

I came across Coco’s Instagram at some point—a six-year-old from Harajuku with more followers than I’ll ever accumulate. The outfits are genuinely good, the kind of thing that would make sense on an adult. Not cute-for-a-kid good, but actually well-proportioned, smart fabric mixing, visual sense that most designers take years to develop. Obviously an adult dressed her and shot the photos, but still. It works.

The whole thing is absurd in a way that barely registers anymore. A child styled and turned into content, thousands of people following, the algorithm deciding she’s worth their attention. It’s exactly as weird as it sounds except we’re all used to it, so you just scroll.

Someone interviewed her and she talked about her style. I didn’t read it. I could imagine her saying the right things, charming the adults, being somehow more together than a first-grader should be. That was enough to make me uncomfortable, but in a specific way that I didn’t want to think about too hard.

This doesn’t lead anywhere. She’ll age out, the algorithm will find a new kid, nothing changes. But for now there’s a six-year-old with an audience and everyone’s fine with it.