At the heart of the tension is a debate over accuracy, expertise and public trust. While dermatologists are clearly the skin experts, critics argue that a derm’s social reach is increasingly prioritized over her or his scientific rigor, leading to misleading ingredient claims and oversimplified skincare guidance. Instances of promoting rosemary oil for hair loss or cyperus oil as a laser hair removal alternative, based on small or flawed studies, have sparked backlash on social media.

What’s emerging isn’t just a clash of opinions, it may signal a deeper shift in how skincare authority is shaped online and the kinds of voices consumers are increasingly turning to for guidance.

Social media algorithms reward bombast, not nuance. In skincare, that means bold statements about what works—and what supposedly doesn’t—go viral, sometimes regardless of their grounding in formulation science.

“Out of all the dermatologists who post online, it is a small fraction who talk about skincare,” says cosmetic chemist, author and founder of Lab Muffin Beauty Science Michelle Wong, a prolific content creator boasting 656,000 followers on Instagram. “But it’s that small fraction who have the most reach, And the ones who get the massive reach are the people posting incorrect information because it’s shocking, it’s unusual, it’s going to go the most viral.”

In short, actual skin science is often being eschewed for clickbait, even by sources consumers consider trustworthy. A dermatologist dismissing a product category with a sweeping “never use” declaration or promoting essential oils like they would prescription-grade treatments isn’t always lying, but might be omitting crucial context necessary to make those claims accurate.

This isn’t just an academic concern; it’s a public health one. A recent study from wellness coaching platform Zing Coach discovered that 50% of gen Z turns to TikTok for skincare and health advice, and one in three cites it as their primary source. Even more notably, 66% say they trust that advice when it comes from a professional like a doctor.

That trust can be a double-edged sword. When a dermatologist shares a 30-second video, their authority is rarely questioned, especially when that derm dons a white coat and employs a confident tone. This dynamic can obscure nuance and create a false sense of scientific certainty. When cosmetic chemists see these videos, they feel compelled to call out the derms making them.

This criticism is in the style of “‘Gotcha! That’s not technically correct. It’s misinformation! These derms don’t understand science!’” says Charles Puza, a board-certified dermatologist with 1.8 million TikTok followers. Puza asserts that the pushback isn’t always about clinical validity. Sometimes it’s about how science is being communicated in short-form, simplified formats, not the ideal vehicle for breaking down every facet of product formulation.

When dermfluencers omit the formulation complexity that lies beneath the product label, the consumer can suffer. Ingredients don’t work in isolation; their effects depend on concentration, pH, stability, toxicology, delivery systems and interaction with other ingredients.

According to Esther Olu, cosmetic chemist and licensed esthetician, many dermfluencers “don’t understand the nuances of formulation science and how complex that is,” she says. “There’s a whole side to efficacy that, unless you are trained in cosmetic chemistry, you are not able to assess very easily,” adds Emmy Ketcham, cosmetic chemist and co-founder of Experiment Beauty.

This gap in derms’ ingredient knowledge can also veer into unnecessary ingredient-based fear-mongering. This can include claims that certain ingredient combinations are inherently dangerous or ineffective, which can mislead consumers and ultimately erode trust in both science and medicine. “I’ve heard ‘oh, don’t mix X ingredient with Y ingredient,’ when in fact, you can,” shares Wong. “Dermfluencers are coming from a place of, ‘well, my patient did this and they’re getting contact dermatitis.’ So they’re conveying that online, which is not necessarily based on a textbook.”

It’s not that dermatologists are intentionally trying to deceive consumers. But many are oversimplifying complex topics for the sake of accessibility or virality. That may make the science feel approachable, but it can also make it misleading.

Puza agrees that ingredient interaction is rarely black-and-white, but insists that clinical experience can’t be discounted. “When I say something like, ‘never combine ingredient X and ingredient Y,’ it is not because they technically can’t be combined and remain active, but rather with concomitant use we see patients with irritant contact dermatitis, acne cosmetica, rosacea flares, etc.”

For dermatologists seeing patients regularly, real-world results matter just as much as textbook chemical compatibility. The perfect formulation on paper may fall apart on actual skin. “Medicine is an art and a science. What works in a lab may not always work for the person sitting across from you in the clinic,” Puza notes.

On the topic of rosemary oil being promoted by dermatologists as an alternative to gold standard treatments for hair loss, Puza explains that such content is usually created because many patients are seeking natural products. He makes sure to tell his patients (and followers) that the evidence supporting rosemary oil’s effectiveness as a hair loss remedy in humans is limited, saying, “hey, this isn’t the best treatment, and it is almost certainly not as effective as the gold standard, minoxidil, dutasteride, etc. But it is your personal decision to weigh the pros and cons of such a treatment.”

He continues, “If a drop of foundation in sunscreen means someone actually wears it, that’s a win, even if it technically reduces SPF. We can’t let perfect be the enemy of good.”

Scientific literacy is another point of contention. Science communicators and cosmetic chemists point to the fact that some dermfluencers have cited small, outdated or low-quality studies in their content. That raises a question of whether medical influencers are truly equipped to critically evaluate the literature.

Board-certified dermatologist and author Natalia Spierings declares that criticism unfair. “We’re all trained in the critical analysis of medical research,” she says. “We have to be. It’s part of our training, part of medical governance. There are doctors who even pursue master’s degrees in medical statistics just to better understand clinical studies.”

But extensive clinical training and experience is hard to distill into a TikTok. Perhaps the demands of producing content while managing patient care, the pressure to go viral and the limitations of short-form video all contribute to a concerning loss of accuracy, context and nuance. As a result, even well-trained medical professionals can inadvertently misrepresent what the science actually says.

For some critics, the issue isn’t about dermatology credentials at all, it’s about performance. Social media turns everyone into a brand. And for some dermfluencers, that branding may come at the cost of accuracy and even ethical responsibility.

Spierings believes the burden to avoid such shortcomings ultimately lies with the professionals themselves. “It’s the doctor’s responsibility to monitor their own behavior and to do the right thing,” she says. “And many of them—it’s a small group to be honest—are monetizing this.” She notes that ethical standards for physicians aren’t unclear but perhaps ignored. “There’s a book called Dermatoethics. It’s really clearly spelled out how you can and cannot behave in these types of situations,” she says, “but I don’t know anyone else who’s read it.”

Still, Spierings is quick to clarify that this isn’t some inter-professional turf war. “It’s not exactly that it’s a cosmetic chemist thing against certain dermatologists,” she explains. “I think it’s everyone versus these dermatologists that are spreading misinformation.”

In the crossfire of competing expert voices, the real casualty is the consumer left overwhelmed by contradictory advice, algorithm-fed content and shifting definitions of “scientific.”

According to Ketcham, “The people who lose in that situation are the people on social media trying to figure out how to do their skincare. Sometimes when the experts battle it out, it is above most people’s heads. It can just lead to more anxiety and fear.” All sides say they want to help consumers feel more empowered. But without clear communication and collaborative discourse, even good advice can end up doing harm.

Ultimately, this isn’t a feud between disciplines. It’s a recalibration of credibility around skincare education and formulation science. In a landscape where TikTok can rival a doctor’s office and “derm-developed” product launches sell out in hours, expertise alone is no longer enough. The new standard is trust, earned not just through degrees, but through transparency, context and humility.

For Ketcham, the goal isn’t winning debates, it’s helping people feel less overwhelmed. “The thing I care about the most is making skincare feel accessible and alleviating any consumer anxiety around skincare,” she says, adding that this mindset is exactly what she’d like to see more dermfluencers promoting. Olu echoes that sentiment, emphasizing that collaboration—not competition—is key. “Not everybody knows everything,” she says, “so it’s okay to defer to someone else that you know may know more about a topic.”

If dermfluencers who talk about skincare want to maintain their influence online, they’ll need to do more than simplify complex science for the feed. The future may require communicating with more care and prioritizing verifiable facts over virality.