There's a deep ugliness and some slippery ethics behind the snail slime beauty boom

Apologies. As a reasonably attentive student of generational divides, I'm still late to one of the most dramatic divergences yet: the normalisation of snail slime.

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At some point, maybe around the time I stopped believing in face cream miracles, smearing on snail mucus, in serums or lotions, was hailed by newcomers to Korean-made skin products as transformative, almost immediately. Its most cherished effect being, as an industry spokeswoman told British Vogue in 2023, "a radiant youthful glow". Today, thanks more to rhapsodising influencers than age-defying evidence, the slime phenomenon persists, gathers converts, and withstands objections from snail supporters, who do not, sadly, seem that numerous. What snails need now, perhaps more than any other animal, is celebrity allies, supposing there are any willing to sacrifice the magical power of slime.

Early ethical concerns about the snails' treatment were satisfied, to a remarkable extent, by industry assurances, duly recited by slime fans, that the slime makers are treated like kings, even when sprayed in their thousands with acidic solution that prompts slime secretion as a defence mechanism. After a few such sessions these snails are caringly euthanised. Yet more blessed gastropods, according to a popular K-Beauty brand, SeoulCeuticals, live out their days in less stressful "snail havens, allowing snails to meander freely over mesh setups, mimicking their natural environment".

Either way, all snails, fortunate and not, are natural, and thus appeal to key demographics in the soaring market for snail beauty products: millennials and gen Z, "who actively seek skin-friendly, cruelty-free beauty solutions". In a masterstroke by the beauty industry, gen Z consumers (aged under 28) have begun spending on anti-ageing while still young. The value of the snail beauty product market has been projected as $3.4bn by 2034.