Demelza the Torturer had just given me a laser facial (I would have changed Demelza’s name for the purposes of this article, but how could I possibly rob her of such a brilliant handle?). At the end of the procedure, she told me that there might be some redness and irritation, so I might go to the chemist and get myself some 99% aloe vera gel to soothe my skin. It was important, Demelza said, to get the 99% sort because otherwise there could be perfumes or other additives that might make the problem worse.

This seemed like perfectly good advice to me. I remember as early as high school that when I broke off an arm of my boyfriend’s mother’s aloe plant, some yellowish goo came out. It smelled awful, but even in my tender youth I knew it was supposed to be good for burns, especially sunburn.

So when Demelza told me to get some gel, I naturally went to Boots. (Boots, you see, dominates the British high street drugstore trade). Boots had all kinds of aloe vera products--aloe vera baby oil, aloe vera hair removal cream (in about six varieties!), aloe vera body lotion, aloe vera hair conditioner, aloe vera colour revitalising shampoo, aloe vera lip balm, aloe vera anti-perspirant (for men in both roll-on and spray), aloe vera antibacterial handwash, and aloe vera after-sun gel. (On a recent trip to the US, I wandered through a major chain drugstore and found that the natural slickness of this wonderful substance has even more creative uses).

I must have underestimated the smelly gel that came out of that aloe barbadensis plant. Not only can aloe vera soothe burns, it can also bridge the gender gap so vital to the toiletries trade. Apparently, the same stuff can be used to sell men’s anti-perspirant and women’s depilatories.

All of these products were from major manufacturers. Approximately half of the creams, lip balm and anti-perspirants were made by Unilever. The hair removal products were all made by Reckitt-Benckiser, the makers of, among other things, Lysol. The hair products were made by Alberto-Culver and several other products were Boots own name brand.

The aloe vera after-sun gel was made with camomile and other additives, and that was the closest to pure aloe that Boots seemed to have, but I bore Demelza’s advice in mind. I wandered out of the shop, but on the way encountered the Clinique concession.

Clinique loves aloe. They have after-sun balm with aloe and men’s shaving gel with aloe. (No “vera” for Clinique though. I’m betting the branding consultants told them that “vera” sounds common). Their “moisture surge” line (at £54 to £63.33 per 100ml in the UK, which is more than US$100) contains “activated aloe water”. The American marketing also refers to “activated aloe” for some, but not all, of the products (125 ml of one product for $19.50; 2.5oz of another for $42). While I did not find out how aloe is “activated,” various Clinique PR sources refer to “technologically-activated” and “bio-activated” aloe, so it must be a very clever process indeed.
When I learned that Clinique’s £63 pots of face cream also had aloe in them, I decided to give my local health food shop a try. There, along with all the miscellaneous herbal things, essential oils and interesting cheese, I found a tube of 99% aloe vera gel. I picked the least expensive and paid about £5 for a tube (I had the option of paying up to £10 for the same size tube). I then took it home, put it on my face and was pleased to note that it didn’t smell like I had remembered.

It did, however, make my face shiny. You see, they fail to mention that aloe vera gel does not really absorb into the skin. My best friend Mel tried it on her legs which were dry and itchy, and it made her skin feel sort of slimy and awful instead. The gel then dried and left white stuff flaking down her trouser legs. This property of pure aloe is probably why a big, mainstream shop like Boots doesn’t sell it. Instead of the satisfying feeling of rubbing something into the skin and having it disappear, this stuff forms a shiny, slightly sticky layer. Apparently, it is much more marketable to put a wee bit into more usual cosmetics and just mention the aloe on the label.

I wore this shiny mask on my face for a couple of days before deciding that if it was soothing, it wasn’t soothing much.

“Everyone knows” that aloe vera soothes burns. How, I wondered, does this plant do it? Clinique apparently thinks that aloe (without poor vera) hydrates extra thirsty skin. But how?

I had to hack through a lot of rot like “Aloe has the unique ability to help skin renew itself by stimulating cellular metabolism, thereby promoting oxygen exchange and increasing the absorption of nutrients”, which I found here. Even so august an organisation as the US government’s National Institutes of Health, says that “Aloe contains active compounds that help stop pain and inflammation of the skin.”

After a while, I realised the answer was simple: aloe vera doesn’t do any of that. No amount of research has turned up anything medical that aloe can do for your skin (beyond some very small studies which had some success using aloe vera in a cream base, but less success using the gel on its own). While it might provide some soothing or cooling by the evaporation of moisture from the gel--it’s very slick, and just having something moist and gooey on your skin may be soothing to a burn-- the bottom line is that aloe vera is simply plant snot.

There is, however, one thing aloe vera can do for you: it can make you poo if you ingest it. In fact, aloe vera is a powerful enough laxative that it can actually dehydrate you. It may even be possible that by using aloe vera as a laxative, you can poo your way to a lower cholesterol level.

Now, I’ve been around the block from a cosmetics point of view. I’ve bought all sorts of creams containing chemical compounds with trademarked names that mean absolutely nothing. (Boswelox™ is my favourite name because I can pretend it was discovered in the 18th Century by James Boswell, the biographer of “Dictionary” Johnson.) I shouldn’t be surprised that one more advertised additive in shampoo, conditioner, hair remover or shaving gel is pretty much inert.
I am also old enough to remember when shampoo used to advertise that it contained beer (beer shampoo apparently gave hair added texture and shine). Lemon, lime, beer, camomile, rosemary, so why not a powerful laxative? I can’t get any more annoyed over their hair remover “with aloe” than I would over the same company’s furniture polish “with lemon.”

Still, the Clinique stand bothered me. On one hand, I know that Clinique is just the division of Estée Lauder where the sales staff wear white lab coats and matte makeup. I even have friends who get fierce skin reactions to Clinique’s products (which cause the girls in the white coats to express disbelief as their products have no “additives”). On the other hand, I’m silly enough to think that because their packaging is so sensible, the contents must be too.

Like the zillions of consumers who buy products from Unilever and their corporate cousins, I assumed that aloe vera had some soothing medicinal effect. I can’t really blame Clinique for using the same marketing trick to get me to buy from them too. If it wasn’t aloe, then it would be beer or rosemary or tarragon.

However, the question remains: whatever the next big additive is, will we be gullible enough to buy into its hype?

Dr Lynette Davidson lectures and writes on history. She lives in a charming market town in the south of England with her partner and two daughters.

ISSUE 4 CREDITS

Skepchick-in-Chief
Rebecca Watson

Managing Editor
Diane Perry

News Editor
Chani Overli

Contributing Writers
Darcie Hodgkins Langone, Lynette Davidson, Aj Davis, Risa Beckwith, Matthew Armstrong, Donna Druchunas

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"Flash Guru" Nick

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