TOOLS OF THE TRADE

A new generation of skin-care devices promises results previously limited to the dermatologist' office. But, asks Mattie Kahn, do they work?

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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?