In a move that has sent tremors through the glitter-encrusted corridors of Boots No7, the NHS’s top mandarin has declared a state of emergency over the ‘cosmeticorexia’ epidemic sweeping Britain’s youth. According to leaked memos, the chief executive has demanded an immediate social media ban for under-16s, presumably to halt the tide of 13-year-olds attempting to contour their cheekbones into submission before their GCSEs.
Let us pause to savour the sheer absurdity. ‘Cosmeticorexia’, a portmanteau so clumsy it could only have been coined by a committee of hungover journalists, describes an obsessive compulsion to pile on makeup until one resembles a sentient paint chart. The NHS, fresh from tackling the obesity crisis, the mental health crisis, and the crisis of having no crises left to cry about, has now turned its clipboard-wielding attention to the tyranny of the eyelash curler.
But is this truly a medical emergency, or simply the latest chapter in the eternal war between adults and teenagers? I recall, in my own spotty youth, sneaking a tin of Brylcreem to school to sculpt a quiff that would make a Rockabilly rebel weep. My father, a man of stern Methodist stock, declared it ‘the devil’s lubricant’. Now, parents are expected to confiscate foundation like it’s contraband heroin. The youth of today, God bless their Snapchat-filtered souls, are attempting to look 30 before they’ve even turned 15. And the fashion industry, sensing a profit margin, has obligingly supplied them with enough highlighter to illuminate a small airport runway.
The proposed ban, of course, is utterly unenforceable. Will we station makeup-wardens at secondary school gates, confiscating lip gloss as though it were smuggled contraband? ‘Sorry, Tiffany, your ‘Fenty Beauty’ is now property of the Crown.’ And what of the home front? ‘Mum, can I borrow your iPhone to check my maths homework?’ ‘No, darling, the NHS says your cheekbones are already too defined. Read a book.’
But let us not mock the afflicted. True cosmeticorexia is a serious condition, particularly when you’re spending your dinner money on a ‘contour kit’ rather than a meal. The irony is palpable. We live in a society where a Brazilian wax is considered basic hygiene, where toddlers have skincare routines longer than their attention spans, and where the average 14-year-old knows more about hyaluronic acid than her GP. The NHS chief, bless his starched collar, thinks a social media ban will solve this. He might as well try to ban the weather.
Perhaps the real issue is that adults have lost control of the narrative. We spend billions on anti-aging creams, then tut at teenagers for wanting to look older. We worship at the altar of celebrities who have clearly had more work done than a municipal road scheme, then express shock when kids want to emulate their airbrushed visages. The NHS should focus on curing actual diseases, like boredom or the compulsion to read comment sections.
Yet in this circus of vanity, there is a kernel of truth. Social media has turbocharged insecurity, creating a generation that views unadorned skin as a sign of moral failure. But banning it is like banning spoons to cure obesity. The only solution is to teach critical thinking, which, given the current state of the curriculum, is about as likely as a Conservative leadership contest producing a winner.
So, as the great cosmeticorexia crackdown begins, I shall raise a glass of gin (slightly tinged with rouge) to the teens of Britain. May your eyebrows remain lifted in scepticism, your concealer stay dry, and your spirit remain permanently unimpressed. For in the war against absurdity, laughter is the only weapon that doesn’t require a prescription.
