Twenty years ago, nobody cared what your hand soap looked like.
It cleaned your hands. That was the job.
Today, millions of people decant perfectly good soap into amber glass bottles. Milo is poured into matching containers, coffee-table books are chosen to complement the living room, and cafés are picked as much for the lighting as the menu. Somewhere between Pinterest, Instagram and TikTok, aesthetics stopped being about beauty. They became a lifestyle. Then an identity. And, increasingly, a status symbol.
That may sound dramatic until you stop and think about how much of modern life is now influenced by how it looks.
We don’t just choose restaurants anymore; we choose the ones with the nicest interiors. We don’t simply book holidays; we look for hotels with infinity pools that photograph well. Before buying an outfit, many people subconsciously ask not just, “Do I like this?” but, “Will this look good in pictures?” Somewhere along the line, the camera became an invisible guest at almost every experience.
Beauty has always mattered. Nigerians, perhaps more than most, have always appreciated looking good and living well. We love beautiful homes, stylish clothes and celebrations that leave an impression. But social media has fundamentally changed our relationship with beauty because it has turned it into something that is constantly on display. We are no longer inspired by the occasional magazine spread or a neighbour’s beautifully decorated home. We now consume hundreds of carefully curated images every day, each one subtly redefining what we consider normal.
That constant exposure has changed our aspirations.
Take a walk through Lagos and you’ll see it everywhere. New cafés compete as much on aesthetics as they do on food. Restaurant bathrooms with flattering mirrors become almost as famous as the menu. Luxury apartment developments are sold through beautifully styled show apartments rather than floor plans. Beauty brands obsess over packaging because they know their products will spend as much time on bathroom shelves as they will in people’s hands. Even supermarkets have become the backdrop for aesthetically pleasing “restock” videos.
Businesses have realised something consumers often haven’t.
People no longer buy products alone.
They buy images.
Or perhaps more accurately, they buy the life they imagine those products represent.
A candle is no longer just a candle. It represents slow mornings and calm evenings. Linen bedding suggests a softer, more intentional life. A Stanley cup, a Labubu charm clipped to a handbag or a Pilates membership says something beyond its practical purpose. They have become signals, small visual cues that communicate taste, lifestyle and belonging.
Status itself has evolved.
There was a time when wealth announced itself loudly through designer logos, expensive cars and oversized houses. Those symbols haven’t disappeared, but today there is another layer. Increasingly, status lies in knowing what is current. Which handbag is quietly fashionable. Which restaurant everyone is booking. Which colour is replacing the last trend. Which coffee shop, perfume or skincare brand belongs to a particular lifestyle.
Taste has become social currency.
The irony is that this version of luxury often feels more attainable. You may not be able to afford a beachfront villa, but you can recreate the look through carefully chosen furniture, neutral décor and designer-inspired accessories. Social media has democratised aspiration. The appearance of luxury has become far more accessible than luxury itself.
The problem is that aspiration rarely stands still.
Every few weeks, the internet introduces something new to desire. One month it is a particular water bottle. Then everyone suddenly wants a handbag charm. Before that it was “quiet luxury.” Before that, colour-drenched interiors. Trends move so quickly that perfectly good possessions begin to feel old, not because they have worn out, but because they no longer fit the visual language of the moment.
Economists have long talked about planned obsolescence, where products are designed to wear out. Social media has created something different: visual obsolescence.
Nothing is actually wrong with the dining table.
It just isn’t “giving” anymore.
That simple shift has quietly fuelled hyper-consumerism. We replace things that still work. We buy things we never knew existed until the algorithm introduced them. We convince ourselves that one more purchase will finally complete the picture, only to discover that the picture keeps changing.
Perhaps the cleverest part is that very little of this feels like advertising. Influencers rarely sell products directly. Instead, they invite us into beautifully curated lives where every object appears to contribute to happiness, success or peace. The products become attached to those emotions, making it surprisingly easy to believe we’re buying more than a lamp, a handbag or a coffee mug.
Of course, there is a price. Financially, constantly chasing aesthetics is expensive. Environmentally, it encourages perfectly usable clothes, furniture and homeware to be discarded long before their time. Emotionally, it creates a quiet dissatisfaction, a feeling that our homes are never quite finished, our wardrobes never quite complete and our lives somehow always one purchase away from looking the way we imagined they should.
Yet perhaps the biggest irony is this: social media promised endless opportunities for self-expression, but it has made many of us surprisingly similar.
Beauty isn’t the problem. Neither is good design or an appreciation for style. The real question is whether we still know the difference between buying something because it genuinely brings us joy and buying it because we’ve seen it often enough to mistake familiarity for desire.
Because if every trend leaves us feeling that what we already own is no longer enough, then perhaps we aren’t just consuming aesthetics anymore.
They’re consuming us.
