A new study emerges from the British Isles, and with it a fresh label for the young: ‘cosmeticorexia.’ The term, a grotesque portmanteau of cosmetic and anorexia, purportedly describes a generation of girls hooked on skincare routines, their bedrooms turned into miniature apothecaries, their minds consumed by serums and acids. The Guardian wrings its hands; the BBC tuts. And I say: this is not a public health crisis. This is a cultural symptom, and a predictable one at that.
Let us cast our minds back to the late Roman Empire, that magnificent corpse of civilisation. As the barbarians gathered at the gates, the patrician classes busied themselves with ever more elaborate beauty regimens. They bathed in asses’ milk, powdered their faces with lead, and anointed themselves with exotic oils. Their concern was the complexion, not the collapsing aqueduct. Sound familiar? We live in an age of decadence, and decadence always turns inward. When the meaning of empire, of nation, of family, of God, has evaporated, what remains? The self. And the self, finding no higher purpose, must be perpetually polished. It is no accident that social media has become a hall of mirrors. The young are not merely vain; they are desperate for a reflection that holds still in a world without anchor.
But the term ‘cosmeticorexia’ does a disservice. It pathologises what is, in fact, a rational response to a degraded environment. Consider the alternatives: what other rituals are on offer? The church is empty. The political parties offer slogans, not salvation. The economy promises precarity. Even the family unit is now a fragile, negotiable arrangement. In such a vacuum, a 12-step skincare routine gives structure, predictability, and a sense of control. You cannot fix the economy. You cannot fix the climate. But you can fix your pores. The Daily Mail may mock the £300 jars of Crème de la Mer, but it fails to see them for what they are: a form of prayer, affordable only to the high priests.
Yet there is a more insidious layer. The ‘cosmeticorexia’ panic is the latest in a long line of moral panics targeting young women. We had ‘pro-ana’ websites, then ‘self-harm’ epidemics, then ‘smartphone addiction’, and now this. Each time, the diagnosis changes, but the underlying melody remains: the young are ill because they are too focused on themselves. But who taught them to be so? Who sold them the very products that now fill their bathroom cabinets? Who designed the algorithms that feed them this content? The very same institutions that now sigh with concern: the advertising industry, the beauty conglomerates, the tech platforms. It is a perverse symbiosis. First, you create the disease. Then, you name it. Then, you sell the cure. In this case, the cure will likely be therapy, or a government awareness campaign, or perhaps a new line of ‘clean’ products designed to break the addiction. And lo, the wheel turns.
But let us not spare the parents. What kind of society has produced a generation of children who know the ingredients of hyaluronic acid before they know the names of their own neighbours? We have outsourced parenting to influencers, schools to screens, and morality to market forces. The result is not just a skincare obsession but a profound emptiness. The young are not addicted to cosmetics; they are addicted to the promise of a better self, because they have been told that the world offers nothing else.
So when the next study comes out, when the latest neologism grips the news cycle, do not wring your hands. Instead, look to the bigger picture. The cosmeticorexics are not the problem. They are the canaries in the coal mine. And the mine, my friends, is collapsed on top of us all. The only question left is whether we will smear a mask over the rubble or finally dig ourselves out.
