A couple of years ago in the dead of winter, we drove to an immersive bubble show in an industrial park near Wembley. The sky was spitting that mean, icy sort of rain – it was halfway through the Christmas holidays, with the hangover of lockdown still hovering, and my family was tetchy. There was a vast hangar into which we hurried. Inside, everything was pink, and every corner was curved. Gauzy lights faded from lilac to pale blue, there was a purple ballpit the size, seemingly, of Luxembourg, and through the hangar my children, their gazes hooded as they navigated a glittering palace built for pleasure, appeared to float. It was the first time I’d noticed the soft-play aesthetic elevated to attract adults – the snuggliness, the bubble machines, the pastel colours – but once I had, I started to see it everywhere.
It’s an aesthetic designed to provoke in adults a nostalgia for childhood. There are rarely primary colours (too simply childish, clownish, straight); instead there are glossy, slightly off shades of pink and yellow that suggest a kitsch sort of knowingness. And the place where this sweetiecore design is most prevalent right now is in the beauty aisle. Products that a few years ago might have been packaged minimally, in sterile-looking bottles that appeared to have been transplanted from a science lab (implying efficacy) now come in baby-blue tactile plastic, perhaps with a dangling little collectible charm attached. What’s changed is not the makeup of the moisturiser inside the tub, but the market.
In the past two years, tweens have become obsessed with skincare. There’s no reason you should know this if you don’t have, as I do, children who come home from school with a new vocabulary (“retinol”, “serums”) and, when asked what they want to do for their birthday, say: “Hang around in Superdrug.” My daughter – 11, and still with the clear, creamy skin of a person yet to battle sunburn or hormones – wears colourful pimple patches decoratively, an evolution of the star charts she only recently filled for brushing her teeth.
One brand has launched with face masks ‘created for growing faces to hydrate, soothe and recover’. Recover from what – a hard day mining Lego?
The new business of tween beauty (from where I’m standing, wrinkled and bewildered) appears to have begun with the launch of Drunk Elephant’s colourful “clean” skincare. Teens were seduced by the bright plastic packaging, which made for good content on social media. Throughout the pandemic, videos of teenage influencers applying skincare thrived on TikTok, finding an audience in even younger viewers, and new brands launched with gentler products aimed specifically at them – Bubble’s products come in shiny, pastel-coloured bottles, and the lip balms are sold alongside charms in the shape, for example, of bubble tea.
In 2023, a survey found that teenage shoppers spent 19% more on skincare and 33% more on cosmetics than they had done the year before. Which brings us to the end of 2025, and news of the launch of Rini, a brand whose name comes from Korean slang for “child”. It has launched with a series of single-use face masks (traditionally an “anti-ageing” product) “created for growing faces (ages 3+) to hydrate, soothe and recover”.
The first obvious question is: recover from what? A hard day mining Lego? The existential grind of waking from naptime? The second is: why? The founder, an actor called Shay Mitchell, explains that Rini is about “self-care” – “inspired by my girls, their curiosity and all the little moments that made me realise how early it starts,” she writes. These children don’t want to look younger: they want to look like women performing their own ceremonial attempts to do so. “From birthday parties and face paint to wanting to do ‘what mommy does’ with her face masks… It was only a matter of time.” It was only a matter of time! A familiar feeling, reading this, of having to sit down with one’s head between one’s knees as ominous bells toll the start of the next stage of capitalism. The sound, then, of a ribbon being cut to celebrate the opening of a new level of dystopia. An image swims into focus. You open Instagram in 2027 to find adverts for foetal Botox, for embryonic fillers. (A secret third question now: is anyone buying these for their three-year-old sons?)
After the tween brands launched with their pastel products, the odd thing was that adult brands followed – the beauty aisles are now aglow with muted neons and shiny charms for women attracted by the possibility of time going backwards. This packaging means children are once again reaching for toy-like skincare products that might damage their skin. Last week, the New York Post ran an interview with dermatologist Dr Sandy Skotnicki who said that in a recent acne consultation, a 15-year-old patient had asked her “If she could still use her niacinamide, retinol, eye bamboo masks and skin primer under her foundation.” A study published in the journal Pediatrics found that teens who were exposed to multiple ingredients from their skincare regimens were more likely to experience irritation and allergic contact dermatitis. But “the No 1 culprit,” said Skotnicki, is fragrance. “Once allergic, you can react to many fragrances, not just on the skin but in the air. It is life-changing.”
True, worrying, and important to discuss, certainly, with the three-year-olds currently adding face masks to their baskets. But a lso life-changing is the impact of being lured, as a child, into the gingerbread house that is beauty capitalism – an inevitable destination, perhaps, at a time of extreme scrutiny, increasing conservatism and skincare designed so that young people can feel grownup, and adults like little girls.
And another thing… Indulgent treats, clever knickers, cosy coats
Pump it up: Widely acknowledged as one of the best chocolate makers in the world, Pump Street is celebrating its 15th anniversary with a collection of special little treats, like a limited-edition Double Sourdough 66% bar (toasted sourdough crumbs are suspended in dark chocolate, adding crunch and an intense maltiness), and a chocolate sourdough doughnut. We deserve this.
Bleeding marvellous: The one thing I preach about to friends is the wonder of period pants. Which is why I squealed at Wuka’s ‘period advent calendar’. At Christmas, ‘While everyone else is unboxing eye creams and glittery lip balms, 3.75 million people in the UK will be on their period’. Behind the 12 windows are nine pants (including one pair for swimming) and a selection of period “essentials”, including gummies and a handy heat patch.
Hidden layers: Every year around this time, I traditionally begin my sad little search for a coat that remains chic while being suitably cosy. A surprisingly hard task, and one I’ve failed at for a decade. This year, however, I’m investing in a Puffertech compact jacket from Uniqlo that I plan to wear underneath my flimsy autumn-weight coat. I have high hopes for a winter of great content.
Image by Getty