THERE WAS A time when I thought that the glossy magazines in the local newsagents were the absolute height of sophistication. Every cool girl on TV had a stack of them by her bed, that she would flip through while twirling the phone cord through her fingers.

It was everything I wanted to be. So from the age of around eight, I can honestly say I devoured every word written printed in them. It was my gospel.

I didn’t really see a lot of glamour back then. Kildare in the 90s wasn’t really known for its couture, although we did briefly lose the run of ourselves over Adidas tearaways, but that was neither here nor there.

Life mostly happened between the local secondary school and the shopping centre, and I struggle to remember a single evening without Coronation Street. It was predictable, reliable, and always at least a little damp.

But the magazines – they were shiny and bright, smelling of perfume samples and possibility.

The magazines were written for me, in the sense that they told me what I would now like going forward, and I nodded along. They were the algorithm before the algorithm existed.

I would always go to the problem pages first. They were a masterclass in human suffering. I would revel in other people’s suffering and mortification, while feeling mildly superior and far too invested.

They were a combination of the best parts of Pinterest, Instagram, Tik Tok and LinkedIn, as they showed me how to turn my Mam’s table cloth into this season’s must have purse, or how one single belt could update my whole wardrobe from autumn to winter, and how to write a cover letter for my CV. I’d be sitting cross legged on my bedroom floor with the blunt family scissors and a glue gun, certain I was minutes away from looking like Kate Moss.

Because back then, the message was simple: you didn’t need more. You could do anything you wanted with what you have right now.

Magazines taught me how to turn what I had into something that felt new, instead of always needing to buy, buy, buy.

Take Vaseline, for example. I cannot even tell you how many times I read that it was the only beauty product you needed. Want to grow your lashes? Vaseline. Need a hydrating lip oil? Vaseline. Dewy glow for your cheeks? A base for your eyeshadow? A product to remove your makeup? Look no further than our trusty petroleum-based friend.

It was lip balm, highlighter, brow gel, eye gloss, body shimmer, shoe shiner and honestly a form of emotional support. It was the only product you needed in your purse. We didn’t have a 12-step skincare routine because we didn’t need one. We had one step, and it was greasy.

I find now that this is in stark contrast to what our kids are now being told (and sold). 

Social media selling

Kids today are encouraged to buy, and have, as much as possible. Of course you need five or six different bottles of foundation. And you obviously need multiple serums and moisturisers throughout the day. Did that cause you to break out? Here are six more products to help with that.

I think that somewhere along the way, somebody realised that telling us we were good enough as we were wasn’t going to make any money. But insecurities – now those were something that could sell.

Glass skin trends and multiple step routines follow videos of influencers showing entire drawers full of neat rows of colour coordinated products. They’ll talk you through extensive skincare products, with heavy filters on their own skin. They’ll look you (the camera) straight in the eye while they tell you about another ‘holy-grail’ product that ‘changed their lives’ and they now can’t live without. No, not the same product as last week, a new one.

Then they’ll bring you through their latest shopping hauls, proudly producing bag after bag of clothes, because of course you can’t wear a single thing from last season’s wardrobe.

If you are wondering what level of dystopian consumerist hell we are currently in, it’s the very bottom floor.

I don’t know if there is anywhere beneath us to go, because the beauty industry has recently decided that there is no such thing as ‘too young to exfoliate’, with actress Shay Mitchell releasing a skincare range for children called Rini that features face masks designed for actual toddlers.

The packaging is brightly coloured, covered in cartoon animals, and claims to ‘hydrate, soothe and recover’… the skin of three-year-olds.

What exactly do three-year-olds need to recover from? The emotional toll of finger painting?

Because why wait to begin your body dysmorphia journey? Honestly, why wait until playschool to begin that 12-step skincare that costs the same as a mortgage each month if you can get started today?

The Rini face masks for children in Shay Mitchell's Instagram post announcing the products. Shay Mitchell / Instagram Shay Mitchell / Instagram / Instagram

I don’t know where we go from here. What’s next? Prenatal pore minimisers? In-vitro facials? Contouring embryos?

Unsurprisingly, Shay has come under fire for the range, with many people asking: why? What was the thought process behind this? Why are we pretending it’s normal for young skin to be covered in heavy products?

Shay has said that her skincare brand promotes gentle self care for kids, not beauty standards.

But come on, you can’t make children worried about skincare and then try to sell it as empowerment. Let’s call it what it is; gross, exploitative, preying on insecurities and, of course, single-use packaging.

Shouldn’t our kids be playing with crayons, not collagen?

Shouldn’t they be playing with actual toys, and not destroying their skin barriers and causing a lifetime of issues that will cost them a fortune in consultants?

I don’t know, I feel ancient when I say it, but I think skincare peaked with Vaseline. The only thing I am absolutely certain of is that it is a great time to be a dermatologist.

Margaret Lynch is a mother of two and a parenting columnist with The Journal.