What is the first thing you think of when you think about millennial culture?

Maybe it’s the soothing tones of millennial pink that wrap your eyes in a blissful cocoon of pastel blush. Maybe it’s the cultural phenomenon of hypebeasts. Or maybe (especially at Columbia) it’s the overarching societal emphasis on aesthetic value above all things practical and affordable. Oh, that one is just me projecting? My bad.

What if I told you that there was a brand that combined all of these concepts into an obsessive, cultish machine of millennial-marketed consumerism?

Welcome to the Glossier dynasty.

For those of you who have somehow evaded Glossier’s lurking presence on campus, you’re either a) living under a rock or b) a straight, cis man.

I envy you. Glossier calls itself a “people-powered beauty ecosystem,” which is a really idyllic way of saying that they sell a variety of overpriced cosmetics that emphasize your ~natural~ beauty. Unfortunately, this means that all of their foundation is horribly under-pigmented and incredibly moisturizing to the point of oily, greasy disaster. Their skincare line promises to annihilate your pores with excessive moisture to achieve a plump, juicy canvas on which you can then apply more moisture so that you can be the most moisturized version of yourself, which is obviously your best self.

But they really outdid themselves with their trademark fragrance: Glossier You. True to its stupid name, the perfume is designed to enhance your natural aroma—the product description literally claims that your skin is the primary ingredient and integral to You’s “familiar human-y” scent. Ignoring the fact that the phrase “human-y scent” is hella creepy and lowkey triggering, I simply don’t understand the appeal in paying $60 to smell more like myself. Not like I smell bad or anything, but if I truly wanted to smell more like myself, I would probably work out and save the $60.

It is true that some Glossier products have been celebrated for their utility and innovation: The Boy Brow brow gel and Cloud Paint cream blushes are cult classics that many wannabe Instagram influencers swear by. But it turns out that these Glossier classics are no more effective than their cheaper drugstore counterparts. Except those don’t come with cute stickers! Fuck! It’s almost like the primary motivating factor for choosing Glossier over drugstore options is opportunity to brand yourself as a Glossier gal.

Here we see the real reason why Glossier has taken over as the pastel pink dictator of the millennial beauty scene: ingenious branding. Glossier’s marketing is centered on the premise that you’re already beautiful and therefore don’t need makeup or skincare. So when you purchase Glossier, it’s almost like you’re purchasing newfound self-confidence, which sounds wholesome until you realize that you’re spending approximately $150 to look like you just woke up from a fever dream.

This empowering makeup minimalist mentality manifests in advertisements that depict models with already-flawless skin and impeccable bone structure demonstrating how Glossier concealer helps them hide their barely-there undereye circles. The underlying message of the company is that you’re already beautiful just way you are… you know, as long as you’re a model with an unlimited amount of disposable income.

Aside from the appeal of joining the circle-jerk of self-appreciation, I couldn’t help but wonder why someone would willingly spend $12 for a bottle of repackaged Vaseline (I’m not even kidding, look at the ingredients, sis!). The answer to this question is hiding in plain sight: the packaging itself.

Everyone knows that if you want to get your money’s worth from a Glossier product, you have to post a photo of it on your Instagram story, with a caption that asserts you “never leave the house without it!” Extra points if you incorporate your East Campus view into the shot.

It’s almost like Glossier products are so ineffective that nobody can tell you’re even wearing them if you don’t consistently flaunt all of the obnoxiously recognizable staples of the brand: cute stickers on your water bottle, millennial pink bubble wrap Ziploc bags repurposed to carry your thicc Muji pen collection, and abstract posters of intertwined female body parts that are inexplicably taped up in every Barnard suite bathroom.

This is a hypocrisy that continues to astound me: How does a company that purportedly aligns itself so rigidly with “wholesome” values and the defiance of beauty standards end up selling ultimately meaningless aesthetics and bottled petroleum that is uncomfortably out of my price range?

Perhaps this hypocrisy is precisely what makes the Glossier persona so sought-after among the Columbia student body: sad, privileged millennials with self-esteem issues and access to too much disposable income, who value products based on their social media clout and aesthetics rather than objective quality.

Still, I can reluctantly acknowledge Glossier’s allure: Finally, makeup that doesn’t profit off of reminding me that I’m ugly! But, in my humble opinion, if you’re so fragile that you’re willing to shell out more money for beauty products that tell you, “You look good,” you probably need to search for a more supportive friend group. Or go to therapy. I’m just saying.

Anna Lokey is a senior in Columbia College studying philosophy. She can be reached at ael2177@columbia.edu with questions, comments, concerns, or death threats about her unflinching hatred of all things Glossier. A Girl and Her Juul runs alternate Fridays.

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