Hair Loss, Hard-Ons & Hard Currency: How Hims Became the World’s Favorite New Drug Dealer

Hims & Hers Health, ticker HIMS, is having the sort of month most CEOs would sell a kidney for—though in this case the company would probably ship you a discreet packet of finasteride, a branded band-aid, and a pep-talk push notification for good measure. Shares have quadrupled since October, a rally so vertical that even the most jaded emerging-market traders in Hong Kong have looked up from their screens of collapsing Chinese property bonds to mutter, “Nice.” From São Paulo co-working spaces where the wifi is held together by Bitcoin prayers, to Berlin cafés where everyone pretends to understand monetary policy, Hims has become shorthand for a very 2024 form of optimism: the belief that late-stage capitalism can still medicate its way out of late-stage capitalism.

The elevator pitch writes itself: a telehealth platform that mails prescription hair-loss, erectile-dysfunction, and anti-anxiety meds to your door, wrapped in pastel minimalism and the comforting illusion of privacy. It is, in other words, the pharmaceutical equivalent of a Spotify playlist titled “It’s Fine.” And investors—ranging from Norwegian sovereign-wealth funds trying to diversify away from oil to Korean day-traders leveraging their apartments—have decided it’s the soundtrack they want on repeat. Never mind that the underlying business model is basically “Pfizer, but with better fonts.”

Globally, the appeal is obvious. In countries where national health systems move with the urgency of a hungover sloth, the promise of a five-minute online consult and a discreet bubble-mailer feels revolutionary. In the United States, where medical bankruptcy is a more common rite of passage than owning a passport, Hims is what passes for egalitarian: $40 a month to feel slightly less existential despair, no insurance adjuster required. Across the Atlantic, France’s generous social safety net hasn’t stopped young Parisians from flocking to the app for Adderall equivalents; apparently, universal healthcare doesn’t guarantee universal focus. Meanwhile, in India, where generic drugs are cheaper than bottled water, the brand’s aspirational sheen still commands a 300% markup—proof that colonialism dies hard, but marketing dies harder.

There is, of course, the inevitable geopolitical subplot. The raw ingredients for these wonder pills are churned out in bulk from factories along the Yangtze, then packaged in facilities from Slovenia to Salt Lake City. A single TikTok influencer in Jakarta complaining about delayed shipments can ripple through supply chains faster than a Fed press conference, reminding us that global commerce now runs on serotonin and shipping containers. Should the Red Sea become any redder, expect anxious millennials worldwide to discover what actual anxiety feels like.

Regulators are circling like polite vultures. The UK’s MHRA has started asking whether “doctor” should require more credentials than a webcam and a pulse. South Korea’s Ministry of Food and Drug Safety worries the ads are too effective, which is bureaucrat-speak for “our citizens are happier than we budgeted for.” And in the U.S., the FTC is debating whether influencers must disclose that their glowing skin might be 10% tretinoin and 90% ring light. Spoiler: they won’t, and we’ll all keep double-tapping anyway.

The broader significance is as bleak as it is lucrative. Hims’ success is a monument to the truism that modern humans would rather treat symptoms than causes—hairlines recede, democracy erodes, but at least the packaging is compostable. It’s also a masterclass in arbitrage: monetizing shame, impatience, and the collective refusal to schedule a physical appointment. Somewhere, a Swiss macro fund is modeling the correlation between TikTok usage and SSRI prescriptions, because in 2024 even despair has a ticker symbol.

So yes, HIMS is up 300% year-to-date, and yes, your cousin who still owes you rent money is suddenly an expert on telehealth TAM. But remember: every parabolic chart eventually remembers gravity. Until then, enjoy the ride. Just don’t mix the panic-disorder meds with the Bitcoin volatility; some combinations even pastel branding can’t soften.