Influencer-induced dermatitis is a thing An entire generation is discovering that algorithmic aesthetics can leave real scars

The promise of perfect skin, smooth as glass and glowing like beauty filters, has become one of Gen Z’s most powerful obsessions (and not just theirs). Just open the app and scroll through TikTok’s home feed: frantic tutorials with serums pouring like water, creams being patted in rhythm with pop music, masks promising to erase years in minutes. A colorful carousel of sparkling claims and routines that look like magic rituals. Yet behind this polished narrative lies an increasingly visible downside: a growing wave of skin damage, so widespread and recognizable that it’s earned its own name: influencer inflammation. A term that perfectly captures the new social and aesthetic condition of those seeking quick, miraculous fixes in viral videos.

The new liturgy of the beauty routine

Once upon a time, skincare was an intimate, almost domestic act: water, soap, a moisturizer. Today it has become a digital liturgy. The daily gesture has turned into a performance of more steps, more products, more promises. Acid toners, multivitamin serums, collagen boosters, glow creams, and glittery eye patches are applied in sequence, as if each were indispensable. The “less is more” philosophy has been replaced by the dogma of accumulation. Yet skin is not a canvas to be layered indefinitely. It is a living, sensitive organ, with a very delicate microbiome. When bombarded with conflicting stimuli, exfoliating acids mixed with retinol, antioxidants combined with irritating fragrances, the result isn’t radiance but imbalance. The skin barrier thins, becomes fragile, lets irritants in. Then come redness, burning, flaking. Skin no longer cared for but weakened, silently screaming the price of excessive, poorly calibrated care.

“Sensitive skin” or influencer-induced dermatitis?

This is where Canadian dermatologist Sandy Skotnicki comes in, author of Beyond Soap and respected voice of the podcast Skin To It. In her practice, she told the New York Post, she sees more and more patients (mostly women aged 18–30) convinced they’ve suddenly developed sensitive skin. In reality, the problem doesn’t stem from genetics or chronic skin conditions, it comes from TikTok. She dubbed the phenomenon “influencer inflammation,” a form of irritant dermatitis caused by the excessive, simultaneous use of too many active skincare ingredients. Often, these patients are highly informed, people who’ve read, studied, and watched dozens of videos before buying products. They lack neither curiosity nor passion, but their knowledge has been bent by marketing logic and viral trends. They end up trapped in a paradox: the more they know, the more they experiment, the worse their skin becomes. They show up with red skin that burns to the touch and reacts to every new product. A disturbing detail? Many arrive convinced their skin has “suddenly changed,” when in reality it was their very “care” that caused the problem.

Fragile skin, already too young

Scientific data confirms this isn’t an isolated phenomenon. A study published in Pediatrics reports that teenagers, and even preteens as young as 11, already use an average of six products per routine. Some go beyond a dozen, as if they were little chemists in a lab. Except the lab is their own face. And the products aren’t always appropriate. Sunscreen is often missing, acids are often too harsh. Thus, still-developing skin gets bombarded. The result? Chronic allergies, persistent irritations, early sensitization. In practice, a generation starting off with worn-out skin. The trend Get Ready With Me (#GRWM) has normalized the idea that skincare should be a daily performance. A ritual for an audience, rather than an act of self-care. In this scenario, the face becomes a stage, and skin the price to pay for digital approval.

The paradox of skincare overconsumption

Influencer inflammation is the symbol of a broader cultural short-circuit closely tied to skincare overconsumption, the excessive purchase and use of beauty and cosmetic products. Skincare, once a practice of care and protection, has turned into a digital performance, a show to share live to earn likes and views. In this context, a product’s value no longer lies in its effectiveness, but in its photogenic quality, in its ability to generate content. And viewers often can’t distinguish between advice and advertising, between personal experience and strategic marketing. The result: they keep buying and slathering on creams, toners, serums, exfoliants, cleansers, without paying much attention to ingredients. And while millions applaud hypnotic routines, dermatologists are recording more and more cases of irritant dermatitis. Skotnicki cites glycolic acid and retinol as examples: two very powerful actives, each with proven benefits. But used together, on the same day, they become a double-edged sword that tears down the skin barrier. The outcome isn’t cover-worthy skin, but a face reddened and burning at the touch of air. It’s the perfect portrait of modern skincare: two steps forward in knowledge, three steps back in practice.

The alternatives: skin cycling and cosmetic minimalism

The point isn’t to demonize skincare, but to re-educate it. Experts suggest gentler strategies, like skin cycling: alternating days for strong actives to reduce risks and maximize benefits. Or the so-called product elimination diet, which encourages pausing all suspect products and reintroducing them gradually, monitoring skin’s reactions. Above all, they stress that healthy skin comes from choosing a few key elements and learning to listen to your body’s signals. A good routine needs just three steps: a gentle cleanser, a neutral moisturizer, a reliable sunscreen. Three. Not ten, not fifteen. Three. A simplicity that feels revolutionary in an era where complexity has become glamorous. The advice, then, is to embrace a slower, more personal, less performative approach.

The trap of glow

The big lie of social media? That a complex routine, full of steps and products, equals health and beauty. But perhaps the real deception isn’t the number of products, but the message behind them: that skin must always be perfect, always glowing under the spotlight, always smoothed like a digital filter. This is the trap of glow: a toxic aesthetic that convinces us natural skin is wrong, that every imperfection is a flaw to fix. But real skin doesn’t work that way. It breathes, changes, rebels. And when it does, it leaves marks no filter can erase. Gen Z is learning this firsthand, because algorithmic aesthetics don’t just leave likes and views, they leave scars. Real, permanent, painful ones.