Andrea, a PhD in literature and nonprofit worker in Dallas, is in her late 40s and feels intense pressure to stay youthful.
'Everyone has a facelift if they can afford one,' she says, admitting she would get one if she had the money.
Despite being a feminist, she is saving up for a neck procedure, embarrassed by her own feelings yet unable to resist the urge to slow aging.
Dr. Sarah Lamb, an anthropologist at Brandeis University, has studied this phenomenon for over a decade.
Her participants in Boston are devoted to anti-aging practices, embodying 'permanent personhood'—freezing their self-concept around age 35-40.
They strive to 'stay young' but grow frustrated with the concept of 'successful aging,' which creates a binary between 'good' and 'bad' old age, implying one can fail at aging well.
As a medical anthropologist in my 50s, I understand Andrea's dilemma. Rapid scientific progress offers more tools than ever to stop time.
Cosmetic products tout 'latest science' like AHA/BHA acids and ceramides, promising rejuvenation. But behind these hypermodern claims lies the same old ageism.
A Historical Shift in Aging Perceptions
In the 1600s and 1700s, older people were revered, and fashionable people often lied about being older for prestige.
After the American Revolution, industrialization and a growing elderly population shifted attitudes.
By the mid-1800s, derogatory terms like 'old coot' became common, and a linguistic study found age stereotypes have become more negative over 200 years, switching from positive to negative around 1880.
Russian scientist Elie Metchnikoff, father of immunology, coined 'gerontology' and boosted anti-aging science in the early 1900s.
But modern anti-aging culture began in the mid-20th century when medical advances allowed more people to reach advanced ages.
In 1961, chemist Dr. Robert Havighurst coined 'successful aging,' making aging well a personal choice and officially labeling old age as 'bad.'
The Rise of Longevity Culture
Longevity culture is the latest iteration. Harvard's Sinclair Lab aims to reprogram cells to reverse aging.
The USC-Buck Nathan Shock Center seeks to extend healthspan by studying biological aging. While reasonable, advocates often imply death is optional.
Anti-aging gurus act as modern alchemists, and leaders like Putin and Xi have discussed immortality as inevitable. Google's futurist Ray Kurzweil claims we will 'overcome disease and aging.'
But this hope is ageism in a lab coat.
Cultural critic Jessica DeFino notes that 'longevity' is just a new word for anti-aging ideology.
After Allure magazine stopped using 'anti-aging' in 2017, brands pivoted to terms like 'pro-aging' and 'preventative aging,' but formulations remain unchanged.
The market is now worth $78 billion and growing. DeFino says, 'When you get down to the formulation level, it’s all anti-aging.'
The ultimate goal is to stop normal biological processes, so any sign of aging means failure. But failure is the industry's success—there's always another product to buy.
Before Metchnikoff, anti-aging research was fringe; now it's mainstream, with hundreds of biotech companies and influencers cashing in.
Drugs like Metformin and rapamycin are used off-label despite lacking evidence in humans.
Anthropologist Dr. Abou Farman notes that researchers now focus on small scientific bits rather than living forever.
He sees a deeper connection: 'We can’t ignore the rise of longevity at a time when there is widespread fear about the end of the world.'
Research psychologist Dr. Ashley Lytle links the obsession to coping with chaos. 'When the world feels overwhelming, people double down on anti-aging,' she says.
Lytle observes internalized ageism at younger ages. Young women buy anti-wrinkle products, and twenty-somethings joke about 'old age' and 'dementia.'
The message is that showing any sign of aging is to be avoided.
Ads use inflammatory language like 'battle against aging,' framing it as a war rather than a natural experience.
Gen Z and Gen Alpha, immersed in Instagram and TikTok, are especially targeted.
