When I’m not dodging push notifications about ongoing geopolitical strife or other miscellaneous calamities that have become par for the course in 2026, I’m reviewing the pitches that crowd my inbox as a beauty writer. A topic that was once a perplexing, unexpected visitor is now a too-comfortable resident: longevity.
“Mitochondrial health is all the rage on TikTok,” declares one pitch, then recommends red light therapy to coax me aboard. Another swears that a $258 “platelet-derived serum” is the secret to “true skin longevity.”
One asked the question that’s certainly on everyone’s mind: “What are regenerative aesthetics?” (I actually read this one; per this source, it’s as “simple” as Sculptra, PRF, and microneedling to stimulate collagen.) When an influencer posts a cutting-edge treatment involving isolated fragments of DNA from salmon sperm to slather over their face, I’ve likely already received a full write-up courtesy of the brand’s PR agency.
In a conversation with Forbes, Milvia Di Gioia, the head of regenerative aesthetics at the Reborne clinic in London, describes longevity in beauty and wellness as “the optimization of biological function to preserve vitality, reinforce resilience, and reduce the impact of inherited or acquired vulnerabilities.” Longevity cosmeceuticals address things like the molecular hallmarks of aging, enhancing skin or physical health at a cellular level. It’s the final (for now) frontier of “anti-aging,” and the beauty and wellness industries are hedging all of their bets on it—a pursuit of suspending one’s appearance and biology in amber.
I’m not sure I want to be frozen in time. Not now. As one of the estimated 72.9 million Americans who attempt to make a living as a full-time freelancer, I’m not sure I can swing it. After all, what will living to 100 look like if I can barely afford to be 32?
I feel like I’m reporting live from a bubble of absurdity as someone gifted products to test for a living, threading the needle between beauty and the glaring pressures of living that have left more than half of Americans concerned about their finances. Courtesy of global conflict-induced disruptions affecting myriad supply chains, grocery and gas prices surged. (Out of curiosity, my fellow citizens, are we splurging on orange juice or a 30-day supply of $125 longevity supplements?) Recent research has found that an individual would need to make at least $81,000 annually to “live comfortably” in the most affordable states in the U.S. (half of them require $100,000 or more), but the median annual wage across the country is about $62,000. That’s just $12,000 more than the cost of an annual, all-access membership to a longevity clinic in El Segundo, California—a real bargain for a health center that boasts reiki, acupuncture, and a 6,500-square-foot pickleball facility. While the elite pick up their paddles after a vampiric rest in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber, 87% of Americans (out of 5,000 surveyed in December 2025) believe the country is in a crisis because of its unaffordability.
This figure should cast a chill through the hallowed conference rooms where cosmetic and wellness juggernauts scrutinize, dissect, and decide “what’s next in beauty.” Instead, we’re witnessing a marketing boom around these prohibitively costly products and services. I find myself screaming the same thing over and over into the void: The beauty industry needs a wake-up call.
