The unstoppable rise of luxe beauty brands and the children who want them.

I remember very clearly the first time I paid more than $30 for a pot of something to put on my face. 

It was about three years ago. 

Until then I was a devotee of a relatively affordable, chemist-bought moisturiser, and whatever cleanser I didn't mind the smell of in whatever shop I was in. The amount of time I spent thinking about beauty products was minimal, beyond a decent foundation and mascara. It was fine. My skin was... fine. 

It's safe to say that things have changed. 

Watch: The You Beauty crew on how to nail a statement eye. Post continues after video.

In midlife, I am a card-carrying skincare enthusiast. Danger is me holding a credit card in any postcode that boasts a MECCA store. I have a routine that changes three times a week and my tastes are as boujee as the latest interest rate rise allows. Possibly more so. 

I blame COVID, an addiction to pretty little packages arriving at my door, and meeting Leigh Campbell. I also blame... age. My skin is needier than it was, and I am much more aware of its lines and bumps and crumples. 

So what, then, is the explanation for Pixie Curtis, 12-year-old beauty guru? 

Last week, on Instagram, I watched the tweenage influencer unpack a bag of Sephora goodies that included a Christian Dior balm, a Charlotte Tilbury setting spray and a Milk hydration stick. I saw the contents of her wash bag as she packed for her Euro-holiday: Drunk Elephant, friends. Oodles of Sol De Janerio, and a sprinkling of Laneige. If you don't understand any of those words, it's okay, I can translate... Cool and expensive beauty brands, aimed at women with smooth foreheads and fat wallets. 

What is a midlife woman doing stalking the beauty-shopping choices of a child? I'm glad you asked. 

Some context: Pixie Curtis has 137,000 Instagram followers. Her mum is PR genius and unapologetic lover of luxury, Roxy Jacenko.  

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My daughter is a similar age. She is not an influencer. She is an ordinary kid at an ordinary public high school. Her mum is me, who owns no Birkins and drives no Bentleys. 

And yet, Pixie Curtis's Sephora haul is my daughter's dream. 

We just went on holiday. Every shop we passed, my daughter's like: 'Oh, that's the Dior lip oil. It's beautiful but you can get a dupe at BigW for $12'. 'Oh, that's the Pixie blush. It's really highly pigmented but goes on quite sheer.' 'Oh, that's the Supergoop sunscreen serum, it's really glowy but it gives good coverage.'

WHAT? WHO ARE YOU?

It was like living inside a TikTok beauty hashtag. 

Of course, to me it was five minutes ago my daughter was this enthusiastic about LOL dolls, Shopkins or crocodiles. But what's really puzzling is how she knows so much about all these expensive, decidedly adult beauty and skincare products that it would literally take her months (and months) to save up to buy. 

It's not Pixie Curtis's fault, for all the pearl-clutching in the Daily Mail's comment section any time she's featured. She and my daughter might be from different worlds, but they are swimming in the same ocean – and that ocean is online marketing that does not differentiate between children and adults when it comes to products – they're all watching the same influencers put the same things on their faces. 

My first exposure to beauty ads would have been for pimple creams and frosted lipsticks in the pages of teen magazines. And luxury products, if I ever came across them, from adverts in the supremely glossy fashion magazines I didn't start (aspirationally) buying until my 20s. Even then, those pages signalled something that wasn't for me, or for people like me.

But beauty has changed. It's democratised, in that anyone can tell everyone about products they love, it's diversified, in that there is more product that works for more skins and tones and faces, and it's celebritised, in that famous people no longer just promote beauty products, they produce them. 

My daughter knows Fenty is Rihanna, Rare is Selena Gomez and Kylie Cosmetics is... part of the Kardashian empire. 

She knows that the most influential people on her Internet are unpacking boxes and bags of these goodies daily to show her and trial for her, and make it all look pretty with just a few stripes and dots. When she puts on her own moisturiser, she does it like that – drop, drop, drop, along the cheekbone. Swipe up, swipe down. Would you like to see me open the package? 

And in this, she is no different from the adults around me. 

My 20-something colleagues search for beauty products on TikTok before Google. They wouldn't buy anything without a recommendation or review. 

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They're lusting after the same things – Drunk Elephant Bronzing Drops and the Laneige Lip Mask and the Fenty blush that changes colour on your skin. And while I would never have wanted to share my mother's creams and potions – ewww, old lady stuff – the flattening of social media marketing means my daughter's generation only want the grown-up lady things. There's a particular moisturiser I only let myself buy when fortunes are high. My daughter would love to get her hands on it.

Let's not discuss that there's a part of me cringing that my girl – beautiful the way she is, as we all bloody well are, etc etc, etc – is suddenly so interested in all things exterior. Beauty stuff is fun, I tell her, but it's not important. She returns my cringe, eye-rolling hard. She knows that, she says. 

A beauty launch is like an album drop is like a movie rollout – more content, more eye candy, more distraction. I'm friends with beauty experts and influencers who can make 10 new lip gloss shades more entertaining than an episode of Emily In Paris.

And yet. Thirteen-year-old me was excited by a bath bomb from the Body Shop or a lip balm from Boots (google it). Pixie's dream haul is a result of the first generation of kids who have grown up being sold to as adults since they could hold a phone. 

The last thing I tell my daughter, as she speaks fluent beauty to me up and down the high street? 

Get a job, kid. 

Feature Image: Mamamia + Canva.