Beauty, Lies, and the Boss Babe Cult

In 2018, I joined an MLM. At the time, I didn’t even know what an MLM was. Multi-Level Marketing? Sounded like something out of a GCSE Business Studies module I’d never paid attention to. All I knew was that someone had messaged me with what sounded like a golden opportunity. No red flags, no warning bells. Just me, blindly walking into the lion’s den in heels and lip gloss, thinking I was about to become the next big entrepreneur.

That “someone” would later become my upline, which, in MLM language, basically means the person who profits off your enthusiasm, confusion, and eventual existential crisis. Let’s call my upline Rhianne. (Names have been changed in this article for legal reasons and because I really don’t fancy being dragged into a WhatsApp war or small claims court with a woman in a Range Rover Evoque and a vengeance.

The Pitch

At the time, I was already self-employed, running a beauty therapy business I’d worked bloody hard to build. Ten years in the industry, five years worth of business qualifications, and a genuine passion for skincare and making women feel amazing. I was always looking for ways to evolve. So when someone dangled the idea of “revolutionary, science-backed” beauty products in front of me, I bit. Hard.

“No upfront cost,” she said. “You don’t even have to be an expert.” Which is great, because who wants expertise when you could just wing it and call it a business?

After a few chirpy messages on Facebook, I was invited to a “business meeting.” Naturally, I pictured an actual boardroom. You know, a water jug, some PowerPoint slides, maybe a biscuit. Instead, I found myself in a pub in Sheffield being sold a dream by a woman who told me she could work from her phone while sipping cocktails in Dubai. I was sold. She loved my “energy.” I was glowing with validation and naivety.

She helped me set up my account, added me to a group chat (Product & Distribution Training, snappy), and by the end of the night, I was fully submerged in something I still didn’t understand. But I was buzzing. Properly buzzing. Like, “first glass of Prosecco on a Friday” buzzing.

Trying to cut a long traumatising story short here…I bought the products. Because I cared. I didn’t want to sell something I hadn’t tried myself. The Facial Cleansing Device was nearly £200, a painful hit to the bank, but hey, skincare is an investment, right? I also grabbed the toothpaste, the clay masks, a few lipsticks, basically the starter pack for the delusional beauty boss I was about to become.

And to be fair, some of the products weren’t awful. But were they worth the jaw-dropping price tag? Absolutely not. And now, having gone on to formulate & manufacture my own beauty products (hello, actual science), I can confirm: those prices were a joke. £12 for a toothpaste?....oh honey.... But at the time, I believed. I even started using the stuff in my treatments. I was that convinced.

Financially though? It was shocking. Spoiler alert: I made next to nothing. I upsold a few items, the toothpaste, shockingly, did bits, I’ll give it that, but it didn’t come close to covering the costs of me essentially becoming a walking billboard.

But I needed to hit my POVs. That’s MLM talk for “Personal Order Volume” aka a monthly sales target. But if you didn’t sell enough? No problem! You could just buy the products yourself to make up the shortfall. Genius. And completely normal. Definitely not pyramid-shaped in any way.

And that’s when I started becoming... one of them. A full-on “hun.” I didn’t even see it happening. One minute I was a self-employed beauty therapist; the next, I was sending “just checking in babes 💖” messages to people I hadn’t spoken to since my Year 9 English class.

The group chat was relentless. Easily 100 messages a day, from 6am until God-knows-when. Training calls, motivational quotes, heavily filtered selfies with captions like “boss babe vibes only 💅.” It was loud, intense, and completely exhausting… and weirdly, I loved it. That weird sisterhood energy had me hooked. I felt seen. Like I mattered.

But that’s also where the mask started to slip.

The Training

That’s where I learned really what a downline was. And where Louise, Rhianne's sister, began to emerge as the cult leader in nude heels. She was flawless. Always immaculate, always posing next to a new luxury car, Porche, Ferrari, Range Rover (none of which she owned, by the way). Old money aesthetic, except... well, not. She became my idol. I mean, she looked like a Pinterest board. I thought, this is it. This is what I want. I want to be her.

So, naturally, I obeyed. I followed her advice like gospel. When she invited us to a training session at a hotel spa, I felt like I’d made it. Business trip, baby.

Turns out, it was more like a brainwashing retreat with cucumber water.

That’s where I heard the golden rule: you don’t make money selling products, you make money building your downline. Recruit, recruit, recruit. The product was just the bait.

After a really awkward ice breaking challenge, it was time to get into the 'training' - learn how to 'recruit', Louise looked directly at me and said, “You’ve got friends and family. Write down 30 names. People you can sign up today.”

I laughed. Politely. I thought, yep, fine, I’ll jot a few down later, but also, bold of you to assume I speak to 30 people...

But, nope.

She stared. Everyone stared. I felt my face flush. I was surrounded by strangers, being pressured into picking through my personal relationships like I was drafting a hit list. And if I didn’t do it? I wasn’t “serious” enough. Not “committed to the business.” I obviously didn't want to be a millionaire.

And then came the real kicker. Louise, bless her, gave us an actual crash course in deception. Not business tips… deception.

Her advice? • Go to a car showroom, pose with a Porsche you don’t own, you've now bought that car with your business profits, congrats • Order one drink at a luxury hotel and pretend you’re living there, how fancy of you • Save for something for six months, then post it like a spontaneous splurge, you're loaded remember

Sell the lifestyle, not the product. Create an illusion so seductive that people had to ask how you did it.

It was never about skincare. It was about selling a fantasy. A perfectly curated, Instagrammable lie. All too well explained when it came to the nationwide event. Oh yes, the grand gathering of the hunbots. Like a convention, but instead of comic books and cosplay, it was filter-faced girlbosses in Louboutins, screaming affirmations and flogging toothpaste.

The Expo

I walked in and immediately felt out of place. Picture an arena full of sales reps-turned-wannabe influencers, all buzzing like they’d just been intravenously fed iced coffee and false confidence. The air reeked of desperation and designer knock-offs. These women were hyped, not for skincare, but for the lifestyle. And the queen bees? They were treated like deities. The “Diamond Directors.” Sounds fancy, right? Just means they’re slightly higher up the pyramid with marginally better lies and louder microphones.

They gave speeches, sorry, workshops, about how to “elevate your mindset” and “reach your goals.” Translated: how to cold-message 100 strangers a day and gaslight them into thinking you’re changing their lives, one collagen sachet at a time.

The utter cringe of going through my Archives

Product demonstrations were next. Imagine non-therapists showing each other how to “professionally” use chemical exfoliants. Acid peels being swirled onto faces like they were applying jam on toast. Not a licence in sight. I’d spent years learning how to treat skin safely, and here was Becky from Facebook Marketplace teaching me how to burn off a layer of my dermis with a sugar scrub and sheer willpower.

And then came Louise, the Louise, swanning onto the stage like the Duchess of Deceit. She gave a full hour-long masterclass in manipulation, disguised as motivation. Her pearls of wisdom included things like: “Every no is one step closer to a yes.” “People don’t say no to you, they say no to themselves.”

It was like watching a TED Talk hosted by Miranda Priestly if she'd taken too much pre-workout and fallen into a vat of self-help books.

Everyone was scribbling notes like she was revealing state secrets. I just sat there, slowly disassociating into my overpriced branded notebook, (a stunning recommendation by Louise) wondering how the hell I’d ended up in a real-life cult with better lashes.

I should’ve walked out there and then.

One of our standard Facebook Posts

But all of this had been working on me. But it felt wrong. Especially when I saw what was happening in the group chat.

Photos were being shared, photos of “results” that were clearly filtered within an inch of their lives. Acne disappearing in days. Scars vanishing in a week. Toothpaste that made teeth glow like halogen bulbs. None of it was real.

And then came the moment that really punched me in the gut.

The Final Straw

One of my fellow huns stole one of my before-and-after photos. A picture of my own acnefied skin, taken during a deeply personal journey of healing, and used it to promote their damn charcoal mask. She didn’t even wait for permission. Just posted it. Then the rest followed suit, commenting under each other’s posts pretending to be customers (you gotta get that engagement) “Omg, send me details hun!” “Need this now, wow 😍.”

I wanted to be sick.

This wasn’t beauty. It was manipulation. And it broke my heart. Because I care about what I do. I care about people’s skin, their confidence, their wellbeing. This wasn’t just unethical, it was dangerous.

Meanwhile, my nights were still spent glued to Zoom calls until 11pm, while my husband watched me burn out in real time. And because I’d been so conditioned, his concerned comments? I genuinely thought he was the problem. He didn’t support my “business.” He was jealous of my success, (don't ask me where the success was, but he was) My friends? Useless. Just bitter. Deadweight I needed to drop. It was sickening.

I was becoming someone I didn’t recognise. And for what?

The final straw broke quietly. No big blow-up. No dramatic goodbye.

I just... stopped.

I stopped replying. I stopped posting. I stopped pretending.

And that was the end of it.

No fire emojis. No farewell Zoom. Just me, crawling back to my sanity, bank account slightly emptier, but with my integrity still (mostly) intact. I had a few messages after I went quiet. The huns reached out. Rhianne checked in. Even Louise herself slid into my DMs like a passive-aggressive fairy godmother.

“How you getting on, hun?” “Let me know if you want to schedule a call x”

Schedule a call? What for, Louise? So you can recite more MLM scripture while I cry into my LumiSpa?

I ignored them all. Every single message. Left them on read like a boss babe in her villain era.

A few days later, I was quietly removed from the group chat. No goodbye. No farewell glitter gif. Just gone. My little “support system,” my “sisterhood,” my empowering circle of like-minded women who “had my back”?

Forgot about me. Just like that.

And you know,

That was the most honest thing they ever did. So, there it is. My journey from full-time beauty therapist… to part-time hunbot… to fully recovered normie.

I lost money. I lost confidence. I nearly lost my mind. But I gained a hell of a story, and a very sharp bullshit detector.

I’m not here to tell you what to do. If you want to pose in front of a car you don’t own, selling toothpaste with a markup that could pay your council tax, be my guest.

But if you’ve ever found yourself one “hey babe” message away from joining something that feels a bit too sparkly to be true, maybe give it a second thought.

I’ll be putting together a follow-up piece soon with a breakdown of how MLMs actually work, the red flags to watch for, and how to protect yourself (and your mates) from falling into the same trap.

But for now?

I’m off to run my real business. You know, the one that doesn't require me to harass my friends, fake a lifestyle, or schedule 11pm Zoom calls with women who think “mindset” can pay your rent.

Catch you in the actual skincare aisle.