This is Cameryn Moore's third show at the Buxton Fringe, following Phone Whore and slut (r)evolution, and she's also a familiar figure around the town at festival time typing up her on-demand "sidewalk smut". I've never actually see her perform before, but I thought I had an idea what to expect – yet I wrong-footed by a performance characterised by vulnerability, honesty, and a longing for connection.

The Pretty One consists of a series of monologues, with Moore playing six characters of differing ages and genders. They're all linked by a lack of confidence about their sexuality, alongside the realisation this key part of their identity must be addressed.

Moore takes time to set the scene, coming on with a small case, and proceeding to dress the stage with the props she will use throughout the performance. To a background of melancholy pop, she is quietly captivating as she makes the stage her own – before finally dressing as the first of her subjects.

The monologues highlight a talent for capturing character, creating real personalities out of simple gestures and acute observations. Little, economical touches include the younger girl meeting an older man for coffee, which “I hadn’t learned to like yet”; a tendency for the male characters to talk to the side or the back of the stage, glancing back at us, uncomfortable at unburdening themselves; and a middle-aged woman on a night out with her friends, outwardly confident but almost too shy to admit that a man might have found her attractive.

Moore sensitively blends themes that that are more or less common: a woman wishing for just a little attention as her husband sidles off to a sports bar, a man so ashamed of his sexual predilection that he sabotages his relationship. In the process, she gets to the heart of what we’re all looking for, whether gay, straight, trans, whatever: it’s a need to be accepted, found attractive, or paid attention. We all want to be the pretty one, sometimes or to someone.

The show is perhaps a little stretched, and the balance between the six characters feels uneven, with the first three seeming to get much more time than the remainder. It also appeared that the two straight men portrayed had basically a very similar problem; maybe there's scope for some trimming.

However, what Moore does so cleverly is to draw attention to each character’s basic humanity, so that the crude shorthands I might have reached for – the lesbian, the trans woman, the S&M bloke – are revealed as demeaning and diminishing. This is a warm and tender show, and Moore has created characters that we can empathise with, characters that I found myself smiling with. They're vulnerable, questioning people – just like all of us.