![facetune customer service facetune customer service](https://fiverr-res.cloudinary.com/t_mobile_web_2,q_auto,f_auto/gigs3/124978709/original/b9efb49476b13bb8d604264be9f6be9424d42b4e.jpeg)
Either that, or the nine months in age that separate us had been multiplied by a factor of 15 by some nefarious Internet influence so that I looked like I belonged to a different generation altogether. I figured one of my best friends was just getting an enviable amount of sleep lately.
![facetune customer service facetune customer service](https://64.media.tumblr.com/d6ce356c35f6c6b46f07a7371a10d98c/tumblr_inline_p3w9pf4p8G1spvpit_540.jpg)
I felt a bit naive for not realizing sooner how popular these apps are. Which brings me to the crux of it all: Wouldn’t correcting my online face be a bait-and-switch for my real-life face? When this identity masquerading is done intentionally, it’s called “catfishing.” Critics of photo editing apps cite catfishing as one concern, as well as body dysmorphia and feelings of isolation, among others. And I’m not even talking about the fancy ones, which can run you up to $200 with no guarantee of better photos for Instagram. Do you know how many anti-aging serums exist for $3.99? Precisely zero. Before posting it though, I heard the voice of my inner critic enumerating the lines in my forehead, zooming in on the dark circles under my eyes, contemplating how much is too much to spend on a new face serum.įacetune costs $3.99 by the way. It’s tough to get a good one of both of us with our eyes open, and this one was cute enough. I posted a photo of myself recently, along with my toddler. Not to mention my chief concern: What is wrong with our real faces?