By Helen Coffey
As I sat down to binge-watch the second series of hit Netflix show America鈥檚 Sweethearts, it was like slipping under a warm blanket.
Charting the trials and tribulations of the next tranche of wannabe Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders (DCC) as they undergo the gruelling audition process to make the team, the programme followed the winning formula of the first series. It鈥檚 a heady mix: pretty, small-town girls with big dreams. World-class dance and dazzlingly high kicks. Emotive and inspiring backstories from the featured cast.
But this time around, an insidious toxicity behind the glamorous veneer of bouncing curls and blindingly white cowboy boots gradually revealed itself. It was subtle and swift, but all the worse for that 鈥 suggesting that what was happening was completely run of the mill, nothing out of the ordinary. I鈥檓 talking about the beauty standards that pass for mainstream in 2025, and of the sad and twisted example being set for the next generation.
The importance put on the appearance of prospective cheerleaders is nothing new. They get marks for their 鈥渓ook鈥 and are commended for how pretty they are in auditions. Their proportions and dimensions are openly commented on when they get fitted for the iconic DCC uniform of minuscule white hotpants, cropped shirt and waistcoat. A full makeover, complete with hair extensions and fake lashes, is required before they even make the squad.
But, aside from the distressing struggles with eating disorders alluded to by some, the shining coiffure and beauty-pageant aesthetic had previously seemed fairly harmless, if somewhat regressive 鈥 a product of hair dye, curling tongs, press-on nails and enthusiastically applied makeup. This season, that bubble of innocence was burst.
In episode five 鈥 cloyingly entitled 鈥淭he Happiest Girl in the Whole USA鈥 鈥 the lucky 36 chosen ones find out that their years of hard work and dedication have finally paid off. They are officially a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, class of 2024, a member of one of the most exclusive clubs in existence: the so-called 鈥淎merica鈥檚 Sweethearts鈥.
With great power comes great responsibility, but also great perks. The Cowboys鈥 corporate sponsors come in to do a showcase, explaining that squad members are entitled to countless freebies to help them maintain their flawless look: hair treatments, makeup, teeth whitening, gym memberships, fake tans, meal prep services. But the opening provider this year is flogging cosmetics of a different kind.
鈥淗i, my name is Nicole, I鈥檓 one of the nurse injectors at Atomic Beauty,鈥 she says chirpily to the roomful of giddy teenagers and twentysomethings in front of her. 鈥淚 mainly deal with the Botox and the fillers, so if you鈥檙e interested in that, we can go super natural 鈥 I鈥檓 your girl.鈥
The cheerleaders smile and clap in response, not a wrinkle among them.
Call me naive, but I found it genuinely shocking that this was promoted so casually, so blatantly 鈥 normalising the idea that these naturally beautiful young women would be getting toxins injected into their faces as a matter of course. It was framed as just another 鈥減erk鈥, an extension of the beauty regime of the all-American girl, so inevitable it was deemed barely worthy of comment.
Nicole followed her offer up with the small print: 鈥淎nd then, on the note of the free services, we would love it if you guys would give us a little bit of shout-out on your social media when you come in and get your services from us.鈥 There鈥檚 no such thing as a free lunch, after all.
Later in the episode, while posing for her official photo, 23-year-old Ava is openly asked by DCC director Kelli Finglass if she鈥檚 had filler injected into her lips. Ava answers in the affirmative and is complimented in return: 鈥淚t looks good鈥 your lips are amazing.鈥
The episode continued, but I no longer felt like I was under a warm blanket. I felt like it had been violently wrenched off while I sat there, shivering and uncomfortable. Watching but not watching.
It might sound like a small thing 鈥 both interchanges last less than 30 seconds in total 鈥 but the message sent was loud and clear. Cosmetic treatments are now the accepted norm for young women: expected and aspirational, even for a brand associated with a sugary sweet 鈥済irl-next-door鈥 vibe. I imagined the countless children and teenage girls who would watch the show and dream of becoming cheerleaders themselves, desperate to emulate their heroes. I imagined them seeing their idols on TikTok and Instagram, proudly showing off new pouts and frozen foreheads. And I imagined how seeing all those plugs slipped in so seamlessly would further cement the idea that young girls are not enough as they are 鈥 that they must start on the endless treadmill of tweakments as early as possible, just to keep pace with their peers.
There is a lot said in the show about the pressure the squad are under to represent not just themselves, nor even a multi-billion-dollar sports franchise, but the embodiment of what a quintessential American woman ought to be: an image so difficult to uphold that even the cheerleaders themselves struggle to maintain it. And, with so much global attention on them, there鈥檚 no question that they are role models. They鈥檙e forced to act as influencers, whether they choose to build a personal social media brand or not, their every word and action scrutinised and dissected by millions.
I don鈥檛 blame the DCC members themselves for falling prey to cosmetic enhancements; they are merely a product of the age we live in, trapped by the same impossible aesthetic ideals as the rest of us (even if they did unwittingly help to create them). But I do blame the DCC organisation for their complicity; for actively encouraging their employees to buy into a culture of procedures from such a young age; and, by extension, for broadcasting to every little girl practicing cheer routines in her living room that she, too, could grow up to be one of America鈥檚 Sweethearts. All she has to do is curl her hair, perfect her high kicks 鈥 and fill her face with poison.