From sun safety to sex appeal

By Lauren Alex O’Hagan and Lame M Kenalemang-Palm

In the depths of winter, sunscreen might not be top of many people’s shopping lists. Yet it remains a staple in most households, and many of us are encouraged to use it year-round. But sunscreen’s history reveals more than just protection from the sun.

For decades, sunscreen advertising has shaped beauty ideals, dictated how women’s bodies should look and reinforced social norms.

The early 20th century saw an increase in recreational sun exposure. Entrepreneurs quickly seized the opportunity, producing creams and oils that promised a golden tan without the burn. From the start, these products were tied to female beauty and sexual appeal.

Early ads often showed young, white women in swimsuits, lounging on beaches or posing suggestively behind deckchairs or foliage. The language in these ads reinforced these visual cues. Slogans such as “protect yourself” and “be sun smart” played on both vulnerability and allure, implying that a woman who cared for her skin was also maintaining her desirability. The link between health and sexual appeal was subtle but powerful.

Tanned, smooth skin soon became the aspirational ideal. It suggested the ability to travel abroad or spend time outdoors, rather than working indoors or in factories.

Modern sunscreen campaigns still celebrate beauty but now frame it in the language of empowerment and self-care. Women are often shown in bikinis, playfully applying sunscreen, accompanied by captions about confidence and personal responsibility for maintaining their looks and wellbeing.

Yet the underlying message remains the same: sun protection is closely tied to appearance, particularly youthful, evenly toned skin. Men and people of colour remain largely absent.

Sunscreen advertising has long used science to convey authority. From the 1930s onwards, campaigns highlighted laboratory-sounding ingredients and made confident claims about skin protection and vitamin D. Early Nivea and Ambre Solaire campaigns, for example, promoted “scientific skincare” without explaining the science behind it.

These ads did not just promise safety. They also framed women as responsible for managing their own risk. Infographics, percentages and scientific-sounding language suggested that careful sunscreen use was not only smart but virtuous. This framing positioned skincare as a moral responsibility, in which a “good” woman was expected to monitor, manage and discipline her body. If her skin burned or aged, the implication was that she had failed to protect herself correctly.

Contemporary marketing continues this pattern. New ingredients such as LUMINOUS630 or Q10 are promoted for anti-ageing rather than sun protection, supported by bullet points and sleek graphics. The message is familiar: women must control their skin to prevent wrinkles, spots and sagging.

Visual cues such as sunhats, sunglasses or shaded settings are sensible precautions against UV damage. In advertising, however, they also reinforce the idea of women as delicate and in need of protection. Science here is not purely informational. It becomes a marketing tool that shapes behaviour, assigns personal responsibility and encourages self-surveillance. While awareness of skin health is a positive thing, women are still disproportionately targeted with messages that link vigilance and self-control to beauty and youth rather than cancer prevention.

Sunscreen was once promoted as a straightforward, seasonal product, something to pack for a summer holiday rather than use every day. Advertising assumed it would be applied at the beach, by the pool or on sunny foreign trips, not during everyday life.

By the 1980s and 1990s, brands began introducing formulas for oily, dry or sensitive skin, signalling a shift away from seasonality and towards daily use. Products were increasingly tailored to specific consumer types.

Focusing on skin type rather than skin tone also allowed brands to sidestep racial inclusivity. Advertising often implied that sun protection was mainly a concern for lighter skin, reinforced by the near-exclusive use of white models and language that positioned fair skin as more at risk.

In reality, people with darker skin can and do develop sun-related conditions, including skin cancer, which are often diagnosed later and at a more advanced stage.

Some manufacturers have begun to acknowledge this more explicitly. Certain Garnier Ambre Solaire facial products now state that they are “formulated to protect all skin tones”, while Nivea product descriptions also reference suitability for “all skin tones”.

Today, sunscreen is promoted as a daily essential. It appears in moisturisers, makeup and cosmeceuticals, cosmetic products that include biologically active ingredients intended to affect the skin, such as boosting collagen or evening pigmentation. Many campaigns feature step-by-step guides to application. While sunscreen does need to be applied correctly to work effectively, the tone of these ads often presents it as a lifestyle ritual rather than a straightforward health precaution.

Sunscreen is now sold as a health product, a beauty tool and a marker of environmental awareness. But when advertising sexualises women’s bodies and links sun protection to appearance, it undermines the health message and reinforces narrow ideals of femininity.

Men remain largely invisible in sunscreen marketing, which may help explain why they are less likely to use sunscreen and face higher skin cancer rates.

The solution is simple. Sunscreen advertising should represent all genders, ethnicities and skin tones, and focus on clear, evidence-based information about sun protection and skin cancer risk. Framing sunscreen as a universal health practice, rather than a beauty product, can challenge exclusionary norms, genuinely empower consumers and promote wellbeing for everyone under the sun.

Lauren Alex O’Hagan is Research Fellow, School of Languages and Applied Linguistics, The Open University and Lame M. Kenalemang-Palm is Associate Professor, Gender and Advertising, Shanghai University. This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons licence