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I used to think a grown woman could care for her face with her own two hands, but then the Clarisonic was invented to disabuse me of such notions. It was 2004, and I was a middle schooler who believed there was no problem astringent toner couldn’t solve. It would be decades before the advent of $2,700 at-home lasers and multipronged microcurrent devices that promised to “retrain the Golgi tendon.” The most advanced grooming instrument I owned was a flatiron.
I saved up for the Clarisonic, as did a lot of other women and girls. It became so popular it was at one point sold in more than 50 countries. I used it with fervor, like a ritual object that might hasten transformation. The Clarisonic—humming, oscillating, exhuming dirt in the manner of an orbital sander—showed me that the path to a radiant complexion was paved with an electrical charge. The brush was more than a pint-size power tool. It was a first mover—a $195 contraption that created an entire class of skin care. I was hooked.
Clarisonic is gone now (it turns out obliterating the skin barrier with a bacteria-filled brush is not best practice), but the device market has exploded—perhaps a consequence of our relentless drive to optimize. There are newer “smart” facial cleansers and at-home laser hair-removal gizmos. There are more LED light masks than there are midsize SUVs. Some boast about clinical trials. Most have fuzzier distinctions—FDA-“cleared” or “dermatologist-approved.” Whatever the bona fides, the sector has obvious appeal. Who isn’t interested in no-needle solutions to fine lines and magnified pores, available (for a price) from the comfort of the couch?
But there is still the matter of whether the tools work. I scour Reddit forums and watch YouTube video tutorials. I read reviews from users who describe glass skin and vanishing melasma. I examine before-and-after photos like I’m assessing diamonds through a jeweler’s loupe. I decide to cast a wide net, procuring not just LED masks that make me look like a Marvel villain, but a helmet that blasts hair follicles with a spectrum of red light, a light-saber-looking stick called the Skorr Glow that Julianne Moore likes to post about on Instagram, a “depuffing” wand to coax cheekbones out of hiding, and several other devices, most of which invite me to download an app.
Peer-reviewed research on the apparatuses is scant, but the most robust evidence seems to back LED-based (or light-emitting diode) therapies, which expose the skin to light at specific wavelengths. Red light in particular is thought to improve blood flow and boost the “powerhouses” of cells to produce collagen, while blue light is said to target the bacteria that fuels acne. There’s also some literature to support the use of microcurrent, which stimulates tissue beneath the skin to tighten and tone. Studies show both a lot of theoretical promise and a lot of remaining questions about whats these interventions can achieve.
Hoping to make sense of the tangle of both research and cables, I reach out to facialist Raquel Medina-Cleghorn, whose beloved skin-care studio Raquel New York is a stark white, sunlit emporium that backs up its woo-woo vibe with an obsessive emphasis on evidence-based modalities. Medina-Cleghorn tells me she prefers the Therabody TheraFace Mask for its three LED treatment modes—red light, blue light, and infrared light. She proceeds to throw around terms like “adenosine triphosphate” and “collagen proteins,” but I’m so captivated by the promise of wrinkle reversal that I find it difficult to focus.
Later, in an attempt to get organized, I divide the tools I’ve amassed into categories and devise a schedule to test them. I start with red-light devices, zeroing in on popular versions from CurrentBody and Shark Beauty. The former costs $470 and is meant to be worn three to five times per week. The latter retails for $350 and includes “under-eye cooling” pads to “tighten” and “soothe” delicate ocular skin. Consistent use of either is supposed to improve plumpness for an “iconic glow.”
I do not experience an immediate turnaround, although I do have a spell of altered vision after seeing literal red while I have them strapped on. Weeks later, a small constellation of dark spots leftover from old blemishes seems to have faded, and I am convinced that I look more awake. Perhaps a bit of the progress is attributable to what I come to think of as the best beautifying tool I possess: the $1,695 Snoo Smart Sleeper bassinet, which is so good at soothing my five-month-old son back to bed that I get several extra hours of sleep each night.
The comedian Jacqueline Novak, who together with comedian and actor Kate Berlant hosts the gonzo wellness podcast Berlant Novak, tells me she has experimented with dozens of tool-forward interventions over the years. Her current rotation includes the PureLift Pro, which is billed as an “instant noninvasive sculpting tool,” and the Nira Pro Laser, which is said to warm the dermis to “just below the pain threshold.” She and Berlant recently flew to London in an elaborate bit of sponcon to secure the updated version of the much-chattered-about Lyma Laser Pro—one of the most heralded tools on the market. (It’s $5,995 and so sleek it looks like what would happen if Khaite made a flashlight.) Novak is as enthusiastic as ever; the fine print has kept her expectations low: “It’s like, ‘Yes, you can have this tech at home but you must be diligent if you want results.’ I’m never consistent enough to truly be in a position to judge the product negatively. The device’s mystique holds while I, a wretch, may fail to make use of it!” It’s either radical transparency or a brilliant marketing tactic, borrowed from history’s worst boyfriends: If it’s not working, it’s probably because you’re not committed enough.
CurrentBody cofounder and CEO Laurence Newman doesn’t put it in quite those terms, but he acknowledges that in-clinic treatments like Botox and filler would make much quicker work of laugh lines than 12 weeks of assiduous mask-wearing. At-home devices are a compromise between injectables and topical skin care—more effective than moisturizer and acids alone, not as “immediate” as a lunch-hour appointment with a dermatologist. The spectrum of options can complement one another, adds Madalaina Conti, an esthetician who touts a “synergistic” approach to skin care in her own studio: dramatic results in an office; maintenance at home. Conti points out that the muscles and fascia in your face need attention, and not just a few times a year. “You’re not going to get results from only seeing a trainer once a month,” she says, by way of analogy. “You need to be consistently doing the work between sessions.”
For consumers willing to put in the time, the effects can mean a longer window between expensive appointments (for the one-time cost of an expensive device). “It’s this democratization,” says dermatologist Anetta Reszko, whose Skorr Glow wand debuted on Moda Operandi in April. “I wanted to translate some of the procedures that we do for patients who I have in the office for a short period of time or patients who can’t afford frequent in-office treatments.” Newman, the CurrentBody CEO, admits that even the most sophisticated tools can’t replace professional help, but contends “they have their own little space in the beauty industry.”
In my apartment, however, they’re occupying considerably more than “their own little space.” I squeeze the Ziip Halo—a petite microcurrent device, which I enjoy meditatively running along my jawline while I zone out in front of The Real Housewives—into my medicine cabinet. And the Laduora Duo—a vibrating, Swiss Army Knife of a hairbrush—is discreet enough to keep in a high-traffic area. It makes my hair so shiny that I start leaving it on my desk, using it while I scroll. I’m encouraged in this behavior by Los Angeles–based hairstylist Robert Vetica, who informs me that his client Naomi Watts saw a quarter-fold increase in the thickness of her hair after four months of use. (Well, kind of: “She didn’t notice,” he says. “But I was in shock!”)
Unfortunately, bulkier devices are less easily stashed. The LED masks are piled high in a corner of my living room, and the helmet sits on top of a side table looking like something out of a high-tech production of Hamlet. Alas, poor Yorick. He would have loved cell rejuvenation.
I do too. But I can’t keep this up. The surge protectors in my apartment are overloaded; I’m charging so many gadgets in the kitchen I have to unplug my food processor. Evan Rieder, MD, gives me permission to let most of them go. “In general, I say if you have the time and the money, [these tools] are probably not going to hurt,” says Rieder, a dual board-certified physician in dermatology and psychiatry based in New York. But most devices “don’t have that much data behind them.” He still advises patients to commit to the most rigorously tested, potent, and boring antiaging protocol on the market: sunscreen, a prescription retinol like tretinoin, and in-office procedures like Botox and lasers. Invest in skin-care tools only if they bring you pleasure, he says. “Using them means a few moments of the day that you truly have to yourself. I think that’s part of what people are looking for.”
After weeks of experimentation, I make an appointment at Ricari Studios—an exclusive, futuristic spa that promises “tech-forward” restoration and has clients wear a signature clavicle-to-toe white stocking to receive services. Its New York location is on Water Street, which means I have an expansive view of the Hudson River while a serene woman named Jodi explains the treatment I will soon experience. Ricari specializes in a machine-initiated form of lymphatic drainage massage, enlisting both a hulking, octopus-like contraption with “legs” that glide over limbs and a pair of Lyma lasers to brighten the face. For around 90 minutes, the devices do their work, with Jodi at the controls. The vibe is at once indulgent and antiseptic, like a form of PT for the one percent. I find I like tools better when someone else is at the helm. “We hear that,” Ricari founder Anna Zahn tells me. “Clients are like, ‘I have it at home, but it’s so great to just have it done for me.’ ”
Jodi’s mollusk of a machine suctions me until I’m limber and floating. I look rested, like the weeks of red light have taken hold. I decide to recommit to LED, a resolution that feels as familiar as insisting I will be a conscientious flosser starting next week. But the best part of the treatment turns out not to be the glow I radiate for the next 12 hours or the looseness I feel in place of the usual tension. It arrives in the final 45 seconds after the tech has been stashed and the cables disconnected.
Just before I get off the table, Jodi dabs the nape of my neck and the tops of my shoulder blades with a mentholated balm. The sensation fades fast, like any human gesture. But it feels amazing—as comforting as your mom rubbing Vicks VapoRub on your back when you’re a kid, as bracing and delicious as your roommate putting cold spoons from the freezer on your eyelids when you’re hungover. No Bluetooth connection required.
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