I used to think a grown woman could care for her face with her own two hands, but then the Clarisonic was invented to disabuse me of such notions. It was 2004, and I was a middle schooler who believed there was no problem astringent toner couldn’t solve. It would be decades before the advent of $2,700 at-home lasers and multipronged microcurrent devices that promised to “retrain the Golgi tendon.” The most advanced grooming instrument I owned was a flatiron.

I saved up for the Clarisonic, as did a lot of other women and girls. It became so popular it was at one point sold in more than 50 countries. I used it with fervor, like a ritual object that might hasten transformation. The Clarisonic—humming, oscillating, exhuming dirt in the manner of an orbital sander—showed me that the path to a radiant complexion was paved with an electrical charge. The brush was more than a pint-size power tool. It was a first mover—a $195 contraption that created an entire class of skin care. I was hooked.

Clarisonic is gone now (it turns out obliterating the skin barrier with a bacteria-filled brush is not best practice), but the device market has exploded—perhaps a consequence of our relentless drive to optimize. There are newer “smart” facial cleansers and at-home laser hair-removal gizmos. There are more LED light masks than there are midsize SUVs. Some boast about clinical trials. Most have fuzzier distinctions—FDA-“cleared” or “dermatologist-approved.” Whatever the bona fides, the sector has obvious appeal. Who isn’t interested in no-needle solutions to fine lines and magnified pores, available (for a price) from the comfort of the couch?

But there is still the matter of whether the tools work. I scour Reddit forums and watch YouTube video tutorials. I read reviews from users who describe glass skin and vanishing melasma. I examine before-and-after photos like I’m assessing diamonds through a jeweler’s loupe. I decide to cast a wide net, procuring not just LED masks that make me look like a Marvel villain, but a helmet that blasts hair follicles with a spectrum of red light, a light-​saber-looking stick called the Skorr Glow that Julianne Moore likes to post about on Instagram, a “depuffing” wand to coax cheekbones out of hiding, and several other devices, most of which invite me to download an app.

Peer-reviewed research on the apparatuses is scant, but the most robust evidence seems to back LED-based (or light-emitting diode) therapies, which expose the skin to light at specific wavelengths. Red light in particular is thought to improve blood flow and boost the “powerhouses” of cells to produce collagen, while blue light is said to target the bacteria that fuels acne. There’s also some literature to support the use of microcurrent, which stimulates tissue beneath the skin to tighten and tone. Studies show both a lot of theoretical promise and a lot of remaining questions about whats these interventions can achieve.

Hoping to make sense of the tangle of both research and cables, I reach out to facialist Raquel Medina-​Cleghorn, whose beloved skin-care studio Raquel New York is a stark white, sunlit emporium that backs up its woo-woo vibe with an obsessive emphasis on evidence-based modalities. Medina-Cleghorn tells me she prefers the Therabody TheraFace Mask for its three LED treatment modes—red light, blue light, and infrared light. She proceeds to throw around terms like “adenosine triphosphate” and “collagen proteins,” but I’m so captivated by the promise of wrinkle reversal that I find it difficult to focus.

Later, in an attempt to get organized, I divide the tools I’ve amassed into categories and devise a schedule to test them. I start with red-light devices, zeroing in on popular versions from CurrentBody and Shark Beauty. The former costs $470 and is meant to be worn three to five times per week. The latter retails for $350 and includes “under-eye cooling” pads to “tighten” and “soothe” delicate ocular skin. Consistent use of either is supposed to improve plumpness for an “iconic glow.”