Should I have been watching Euphoria’s first season as an innocent, bright-eyed 14-year-old? Probably not. At the time, I thought that the chaotic lives of the characters were what I could hesitantly expect as I got older. Little did I know that I was actually destined to be a neek aiming at Oxford, but the point still stands. While I couldn’t relate to Rue’s drug-fuelled crash-outs, or Cassie and Maddy’s fights over Nate, the angst and vulnerability of the ensemble cast spoke to me, and certainly to millions of other teenagers around the world. Coupled with a Petra Collins-esque aesthetic and the familiarity of Zendaya from her Disney days, Euphoria was bound to resonate with Gen Z. So, why was the recent premiere of the third season so underwhelming?

Set several years after the second season, season three of Euphoria sees the cast of troubled teenagers in their early adulthoods, pursuing careers and supposedly dealing with the same insecurities and relationship problems they faced in high school. We are transported from a gritty yet glittery haze to a desert straight out of Breaking Bad, with a complete overhaul of the show’s aesthetics and creative direction. Town festivals and house parties are swapped for meth labs and strip clubs, but many of the characters are invested with the same immaturity as before, while their audience has grown up in the meantime.

While ‘Euphoria Sundays’ are as popular as ever on X, the behind-the-scenes chaos plaguing the show is just as notorious. Just last week, season one and two composer Labrinth announced that his music would not appear in the third season, after being treated “like shit” by associates of the show. Although it is unclear exactly what happened between Labrinth, HBO, and writer Sam Levinson, the absence of Labrinth’s unique score has changed the feel of the show entirely. To add fuel to the fire, Labrinth also released music on the last ‘Euphoria Sunday’, leading fans to speculate that this was originally meant for the show. What was once a common thread between years-apart seasons is now an awkward Hans Zimmer-filled placeholder, lacking a clear vision. When the third season hinges entirely on the premise of a time-jump, aesthetic and thematic continuity is needed more than ever, but highly publicised fallouts like these only weaken the show’s identity.

Additionally, while it is yet to be seen whether major players from past seasons will return, several fan favourites are confirmed to have left the show for good. Actors Angus Cloud (Fezco O’Neill) and Eric Dane (Cal Jacobs) sadly passed away in 2023 and 2026, respectively, with Dane’s final scenes as Cal airing posthumously in the upcoming season. Other cast members are also said to be missing from the third season, including Algee Smith (Chris McKay), Barbie Ferreira (Kat Hernandez), and Storm Reid (Gia Bennett). Most shocking, however, may be that lead actor Hunter Schafer (Jules Vaughn) did not appear at all in the season premiere. An overhaul of characters does not bode well for the series, especially given the countless allegations of a toxic working environment, including from Oscar-nominated actor Colman Domingo.

These issues point to a wider problem with the show’s production, which has resulted in the loss of Gen Z’s attention: simply, too much time has passed. While Skins, a comparable British TV show, grew annually with its audience, Euphoria has taken six years to develop just three seasons, which can be a risky outcome for a coming-of-age drama. The four-year gap between the second and third seasons can be felt in the performances on screen; Jacob Elordi, in particular, does not seem to have his heart in it anymore. Why would he? After Oscar and BAFTA nominations, and partnerships with Hugo Boss and TAG Heuer, Euphoria may now be little more than a contractual obligation, instead of a significant step up from The Kissing Booth. Watching Elordi and Sweeney engage in pet play (yes, really) in the new season’s first episode is excruciating, devoid of any sexual chemistry or enjoyment. Thankfully, Zendaya’s excellent performance as chaotic, masc lesbian Rue is the saving grace of the show, proving the bittersweet point that her carefully-crafted character has been let down by the show’s writing.

If the aesthetic, cast, and music of the first two seasons were irrevocably stripped away to reveal a bland artistic landscape, the writing suffered an even worse fate. Admittedly, Euphoria was never a feminist masterpiece, and much can be said about the reliance of the early seasons on Sydney Sweeney’s naked body. But, fundamentally, they had something to say about the exploitation of women and the sexual politics of teenagers. Whether it was Rue’s drug addiction, Cassie’s abortion, or Maddy’s experience of domestic violence, Euphoria was never afraid to deal with hard-hitting issues and explore the emotional effects of adversity.

Fast forward to season three, and the picture is very different. Sexual scenes are ramped up and appear to be fetish content more than anything else. Rue’s reintroduction to the series sees her working as a drug mule, smuggling fentanyl from Mexico to the United States – naturally, this requires that we watch her swallow large balls of drugs, while sticking her fingers in her mouth, gagging, and salivating intensely. Likewise, Cassie attempts to fund her wedding by becoming an OnlyFans model, which obviously means that the audience must see her creating fetish porn. There is no critical lens held up to their actions, as there perhaps would have been in the past. No exploration of how it may feel for Rue to be exploited in this way, no exploration of Cassie’s relationship with her body. Rather, we are met with scenes designed to shock, disgust, but also arouse, perhaps a manifestation of the writer’s fantasies – the same writer who directed The Idol in 2023, which was critically panned for its sleazy approach to “shocking” sexual themes.

The demand for a third season of Euphoria was high, given that season two had ended on a cliffhanger, and the plot had captured the hearts of Gen Z. Yet, the time taken for this season to materialise failed to account for the audience’s dwindling desire, and the principal actors’ introductions to high-brow, award-winning cinema. A lack of interest from the audience seems to have been matched by a lack of interest from the actors themselves, including the few who chose to stay on at all. The show refuses to grow with its audience, instead pandering to the lowest common denominator of horny men turned on by Sydney Sweeney. If season three continues in this way, what could have been a powerful yet hilarious representation of youthful angst and drama will have literally lost the plot.

When Baroness Alexandra Freeman became Principal of Hertford College last month, she did not initially realise she was the first woman to hold the role. It was a detail that, she says, came as a surprise, given that Hertford had begun admitting women in 1974, amongst the earliest of the formerly all-male colleges to do so. The significance of this fact has emerged gradually since. At one of her first gaudy dinners, she hosted some of the college’s first female students, including its first female JCR President. “I was really surprised how much it meant to them to have a female Principal”, she reflects. “More than one said that they had wondered whether it would happen in their lifetime.”

That sense of something both long overdue and yet only newly realised runs through Oxford’s recent shift in college leadership. Women now make up 47% of Heads of House, a figure that would have been difficult to imagine even a generation ago, and the University itself is led by a female Vice-Chancellor. At a glance, the change appears to be substantial. But it isn’t evenly distributed. 13 colleges have never had a female Head. Nine current Heads are the first women to hold their roles. And among the Permanent Private Halls, there has yet to be a single female Head. The result is a pattern that feels less like a clean transition into the modern day but rather a series of staggered steps, shaped by the histories of the individual institutions. 

Timelines and trends 

The emergence of women in senior college leadership is, in many ways, a recent phenomenon, best understood by considering the long individual institutional histories of each college. Women’s colleges have, unsurprisingly, a long history of women in senior leadership roles from their founding, with male heads historically the exception rather than the norm. St Anne’s and St Hilda’s, for example, have both only ever had one male Principal. Lady Margaret Hall’s first male Principal, Duncan Stewart, took the position the same year that the college became co-educational.

In most other colleges, however, many of the first female Heads were only appointed towards the end of the 2010s, with 13 colleges appointing their first female Heads since 2015, as though the University as a whole is, belatedly, catching up with itself. While most male colleges started to admit women in the 1970s, changes in gender inclusivity have been gradual, often just layered onto existing structures. Colleges admitted women as students, gradually appointed women as fellows, and at last saw these changes reflected at the level of leadership. The delay between these stages can’t be ignored and highlights just how much historical influences and entrenched norms still shape colleges today. This can also help explain why colleges like Hertford, early adopters of co-education, have nonetheless only recently appointed their first female Heads. 

But this acceleration hasn’t produced uniformity. Some colleges, such as Mansfield, have moved quickly, appointing multiple female Heads in succession. Others have yet to appoint one at all. Despite being amongst the first male colleges to go co-ed, Wadham has never been led by a woman. Brasenose and Jesus have only just appointed women as their Heads of House, both of whom will take up their roles later this year.

The persistence of the ‘first woman’ phenomenon is revealing. These appointments are often framed as milestones; celebrated by colleges as markers of progress that signal a break with the past. But they also point to how long that break has taken, and how dependent it remains on the particular trajectories of individual colleges.

Yet these appointments also reflect larger trends within the university culture. The fact that the initial appointment of women to these roles is clustered, for instance, suggests that many colleges may be attempting to keep pace with one another. The growth in leadership inclusivity during the late 2010s also means that many of the first female Heads of House faced the additional challenge of responding to the COVID-19 pandemic, which Dinah Rose, President of Magdalen College, described as “tough for everyone” regardless of gender.

These changes also illustrate broader societal trends in women’s professional leadership in academia and beyond. These changes have also resulted in the way in which women hold themselves in positions of power. Rose noticed these shifts firsthand: “In earlier years, [women] often adopted a rather stiff and formal persona, perhaps compensating for some anxiety about whether they’d be accepted in their role. It is a joy to me now to be friends with a number of senior women who are funny, irreverent and relaxed, as well as being brilliant and accomplished. It seems to me that they own the space of leadership in a way that was more difficult for an earlier generation.”

The appointment 

These patterns are shaped, in part, by how Heads of House are selected. Most rely on internal elections among fellows, others on appointment processes involving the University Council, and in certain cases – most notably at Christ Church – the position is decided by an external authority. The Dean of Christ Church is appointed by the Crown on the advice of the Prime Minister. 

In theory, the internal election approach is a more democratic form of governance, but in practice, it can often reproduce the existing imbalances which have become deeply embedded within higher education. Fellows – often the group responsible for electing Heads – remain disproportionately male in many colleges. At Balliol, for example, whose first female Master, Dame Helen Ghosh, took up the post in April 2018 and remains in the role today, less than a quarter of fellows are women. Similarly, at Jesus College, whose first female principal will assume the role this August, less than a third of the Governing Body are women. Where leadership is determined internally, it is perhaps unsurprising that outcomes tend to reflect these underlying demographics.

This is not necessarily the result of explicit bias. Instead, it is perhaps better understood as a form of pipeline inequality, where imbalances in representation at junior levels accumulate, resulting in a lack of diversity in senior leadership. Academic career progression, fellowship appointments, and informal networks all play a role in shaping this pipeline. In many cases, these dynamics are subtle: the product of long-standing imbalances, uneven progression rates, and the weight often placed on particular forms of academic experience or institutional familiarity.

The result is a landscape in which progress depends less on overarching institutional reform than on the internal dynamics of individual colleges. Even where colleges attempted to widen the field, appointments remain shaped by internal culture as much as formal criteria. As Helen King, Principal of St Anne’s, notes, each college brings its own “personality and values and history” to the process, with governing bodies weighing candidates differently depending on what they see as most important at a given moment. Whilst search processes – often outsourced to headhunting agencies – may begin with a broad pool, decisions are ultimately made within comparatively small groups, drawing on shared understandings – both explicit and implicit – of what leadership should look like.

King is cautious about drawing firm conclusions from this, emphasising the complexity of the system itself. Fellows, she says, approach these decisions with a strong sense of responsibility, weighing a range of factors. “Different fellows put different weights on different things”, she explains – whether that is academic record, leadership experience, or the ability to represent the college’s identity. But that breadth of consideration also means that no single factor – including diversity – is ever likely to be decisive on its own. 

What’s in a name?

Language offers another window into these dynamics. Across Oxford, the titles given to Heads of House vary widely: from Warden to Provost, Master to Principal, and President to Dean. Whilst these distinctions often appear superficial and ceremonial, they reflect deeper histories of authority and institutional identity.

Older colleges tend to retain titles such as ‘Warden’ or ‘Provost’ whilst newer or reformed colleges have tended to adopt terms like ‘Principal’ or ‘President’. The variety of Oxford college titles is particularly notable, as 20 of the 31 colleges at Cambridge use the term ‘Master’ to describe the Head of the college. The only college in the Oxbridge system to use a title that is gendered feminine is Girton College at Cambridge, which has used the title ‘Mistress’ since the college was founded in 1869.

Issues of language extend beyond titles themselves. In some college statutes, such as those of Keble College, the Head is still referred to using explicitly male pronouns. Elsewhere, especially amongst former women’s colleges, the reverse pattern is clear with female pronouns regularly used as the default in these governance documents. While subtle, the use of gendered pronouns may change the way students and faculty of colleges understand how accessible leadership pathways may be to them.

At the same time, it is also notable that simply having more gender-inclusive titles does not always correlate to actual gender inclusivity in appointments. For instance, of the eleven colleges that have never appointed female Heads, only one uses the gendered title of ‘Master’. At Cambridge, where the term ‘Master’ is used much more often, there also does not seem to be a significant practical connection between the gender of the title and the gender of the title holder. This is not to suggest that the title of leadership roles is unimportant, but it does appear that, in practice, the gendering of a title may not limit the gender of the appointee.

Lived experience

These historical contexts can often be highly significant in determining the experience of current-day female Heads – although the wider picture remains more nuanced. Freeman notes that even before taking up her role, she had “already heard stories” of discrimination within the university. Rose, in comparison, suggested that leading a college represents, in some respects, a “refreshing change” from other institutional environments, noting particularly her previous experience as a barrister in which she was “conscious of the need to establish my credibility in court in ways that men don’t have to”.

Professor Lady Sue Black, President of St John’s College, described Oxford as “a good standard for other institutions” as women have many roles in senior leadership within colleges and across the university. However, Oxford lags slightly behind Cambridge, where only 5 out of the 31 colleges have never had a female Head, about 16%. Rose also noted that her position as a female Head of a formerly all-male college puts her in “some striking situations” such as when she “presid[ed] over an all-male gaudy of alumni who matriculated before the College became co-educational in 1979. On at least one occasion, I was the only woman in Hall, apart from members of the choir and the serving staff”.

An ongoing process

Viewed in isolation, the rise in female Heads of House suggests meaningful progress – compared to even just a decade ago, the landscape has changed significantly. Fundamentally, women are no longer the exceptions with college leadership in the way that they once were. And yet, the persistence of the ‘first woman’ phenomenon points to a process that’s still largely incomplete, with around a quarter of colleges having never appointed a woman as Head. Oxford also has yet to appoint a female Chancellor – a reminder that some of its most visible positions of authority remain shaped by tradition.

This unevenness is also visible beyond gender. Whilst the number of women in leadership has increased, progress across other forms of representation, such as ethnicity and religion, remains limited. Baroness Valerie Amos became the first-ever Black head of an Oxford college upon her appointment as Master of University College in September 2020. She remains the only Black Head of House to have ever led an Oxford college.

At the same time, the positive changes in the inclusion of female Heads speak to what Professor Dame Julia Black, Warden at Nuffield College, describes as a “transformed” landscape for women in leadership roles. Speaking about the entirety of her professional career in academia, Black also emphasised that the shifts in inclusion are also highly intentional: “This change hasn’t happened by accident, however, but is the result of a concerted effort by an extraordinary number of people in multiple sectors over a long period of time. So it’s essential to keep supporting women to be successful leaders.”

Preoccupation with one’s appearance is to be expected when starting at University. New wardrobes and even newer anxieties combine as the daunting concept of Fresher’s Week approaches. Coming from a working-class background, these feelings are inevitably amplified when starting at an institution like Oxford. One only wishes to fit in – a daunting challenge in a University drenched in tradition, history, known for its generational wealth and privilege.

We look to what we can control: our appearances, subtle behaviours. We want to put forward our best selves, but also feel confident with the people around us. But there are certainly some behaviours that you would never expect to carry social meaning. Nicotine, for me at least, was certainly not one of them.

Growing up in a deprived seaside town, my classic night out before university might include some drinks in our sticky local Wetherspoons before shuffling across the road to an equally grubby nightclub. Not before a quick pit stop at the brightly lit ‘Vape Selection’, where a cash-only lemon and lime Crystal Bar awaited us. This route was well-trodden, as many an LED light and fruit-flavoured puff marked the darkened club. Rarely, if we were fortunate enough to afford a pack (or more realistically, leech from someone else), the rogue Malboro would make an appearance. 

There was something exclusive about the cigarette, how when someone lit one up, the herds would come running. I found myself enjoying being that person with the packet, as I would exchange bizarre details about my life with strangers in the club’s smoking area. ‘Smoking socially’, in all senses of the term, gave me a buzz. As an extrovert, I was happy to be a part of the 11.6% of 18-24 year olds who enjoyed a late night fag and a deep chat. 

While I had always viewed smoking as a luxury, largely down to its price, I had never viewed anyone any differently for puffing on a Superking or an Elf Bar. There was no hierarchy, nor was it a marker of identity. But university changed that. 

The vape, in Oxford, is practically extinct. Or rather, it is hidden. I noticed how friends who did enjoy a Lost Mary would do so discreetly: a quick inhale before it disappeared hurriedly into a pocket. But the cigarette, on the other hand, was a different story. 

People seemed proud to smoke. They would gather in groups, almost parading their cigarettes, as they dramatically lit one up for a friend. Whether in a pub garden, outside a bar, or simply walking down the street, I would see the same calculated raising of the filter to the mouth, a deep, slow puff, before the cathartic, eye-roll that came with the exhale. It was almost choreographed in its performance. It was alluring, with something frankly sexual about it. 

The return of early 2000s beauty and fashion is nothing new. Clothes are branded with Y2K labels in shop windows, while unhealthily skinny bodies walk down red carpets. ‘Heroine chic’ is back, as dark circles, hollow cheekbones, and malnutrition are flaunted as a physical ideal – particularly for women. Health is not in. Instead, we see something darker and grittier in these trends… certainly exacerbated by frequent paparazzi shots of Paul Mescal, Sabrina Carpenter, and Charli XCX taking a drag. 

However, what struck me was not the universality of this ‘trend’. People have always mimicked celebrities: that is old news. But it was this distinction between the chic, glorified, and even fetishised cigarette, versus the villainisation and trivialisation of the disposable vape that I could not comprehend. Until university showed me its roots in classism. 

The average vape’s bright colouring, cheap price (averaging around £3-5), and sweet flavours make it uncool. A lesser commodity compared to cigarettes, which comparatively average at around £13-20 per pack. I joked with friends about how people were able to afford this lifestyle on a student budget, as I rationed my pack of 20 to last as long as possible. But not only this, I found it hilarious the way in which people paraded around with their cigarettes in Oxford. They were treated like some kind of armour, a status symbol, while I watched my friend shamefully rush their lemon and lime back into their pocket. 

Despite Gen Z’s hyperexposure to the damages that cigarettes can cause via campaigns throughout the 2010s, it was clear that this performance was a symptom of something different. A broader aesthetic desire to appear scruffy, frazzled, and messy, in a way that mimics the working class but conveniently excludes the implications of that. It was poverty porn at its finest – the performance of class as style.  

I grew up with a single mum ashamed of her smoking, a feeling which certainly influenced me as I was told to “stay away” from cigarettes, that I would be broke from my first puff. Cigarettes were never glamorous – they were a burden, both financial and physical. I would never have imagined that, in a different context, they could become something to display with pride.

And yet, here they are – no longer hidden behind cupped hands or apologetic glances, but held aloft, aestheticised, transformed into something aspirational.

What feels most jarring is not the smoking itself, but the selective romanticisation of it. The same act that signified struggle in one context becomes style in another. The difference is not the cigarette, but who is holding it.

In the end, the smoke may dissipate, but its signal is all too clear.