Why Are Middle-Aged Dads Quitting Baijiu — and Catching the Blond-Hair Bug?

I

This past June, middle-aged men born in the 1980s flocked to hair salons en masse to dye their hair blond.

The topic’s exposure on social media topped 1 billion views. One man dyed his hair gold and went to pick up his kid from school; the kid stared at him through the school gate for a good while, then decided to pretend not to recognize him. Others dragged coworkers along on weekends to dye their hair “granny gray” as a group. One salon hung a banner offering free blond dye jobs for anyone born in the ’80s, with the line stretching out onto the curb — Tony the stylist worked twelve hours straight. They also piled into piercing shops to get their ears pierced, took motorcycle license tests, and bought heavy motorcycles. They said they wanted to “rebel before their kids get the chance to.”

One man born in the ’80s put it in a way that struck a nerve: “Once you’re past 35, most things in your life don’t belong to you anymore. At work you take orders from your boss, at home you follow your wife’s arrangements, and when it comes to your kids you barely get a say at all. The one thing that’s still, for now, in your own hands is the color of your hair.”

This isn’t an isolated case. Starting last year, another seemingly unrelated phenomenon has also been unfolding.

At the end of 2023, a woman posted on Xiaohongshu saying that drinking Jingjiu relieved her menstrual cramps, and she gave it a nickname: “Auntie’s Magic Potion.”

That post was like a match thrown into a haystack. Over the following two years, “Auntie’s Magic Potion” became one of the hottest liquor-related topics on Douyin and Xiaohongshu. Related posts topped 100,000, and the hashtag #JingjiuGirls# racked up over 300 million views. Girls mixed Jingjiu with C100 Vitamin Water and Genki Forest sparkling water to concoct drinks named “Flame Rose,” “A Girl’s Secret Heart,” and “Sunlit Golden Mountain” — dozens of fancy recipes, each video routinely pulling in over 100,000 likes and shares.

What is Jingjiu? It’s a health tonic liquor launched in 1989, famous for the slogan “Jingjiu is good, but don’t overdo it” — a household phrase — with a core customer base that has always been men over 45. Its bottle is printed with astragalus, goji berries, cinnamon, and angelica, and it’s marketed as something that “nourishes the kidneys, boosts male vitality, and fights fatigue.” The single most textbook “middle-aged-men-only” product there is.

But it was precisely this group of young women — who had nothing whatsoever in common with middle-aged men — who seized the product for themselves. They weren’t buying its health function; they were saying: after a hard day, I deserve to treat myself to a drink. They turned Jingjiu from “a fill-up station for middle-aged men” into “a strong woman’s liquor.”

That traffic converted into hard cash. Jingpai Corporation’s president, Wang Nanbo, publicly disclosed that over the past two years, Jingjiu gained more than 9 million new young consumers aged 18 to 30, of whom 4 million were women. In the first half of 2025, sales of Red Label Jingjiu topped 4 billion yuan, up more than 50% year on year. Full-year revenue is projected to grow more than 20%, pushing toward the 10-billion-yuan mark. Against a backdrop of the whole baijiu industry under pressure — even Moutai struggling to hold its price line — Jingjiu stood out on its own, with shortages reported in multiple regions.

A middle-aged health tonic that had been on sale for 36 years was drunk into a 10-billion-yuan single product by a group of young women. The brand didn’t even launch a new product — it was consumers themselves who redefined what the product meant.

Middle-aged men stopped drinking baijiu and went to dye their hair blond. Middle-aged women stopped drinking health teas and started drinking Jingjiu.

On the surface, one is personal image management and the other is a consumption behavior. But underneath, it’s the same thing: people no longer accept the rule that “at a certain age, you’re supposed to do certain things.”

Middle-aged men were told, “You should be steady and low-key,” and they said no, I’m going to dye my hair blond. Middle-aged women were told, “You should drink health tea,” and they said no — “Never mind love, never mind romance — middle-aged Jingjiu, sixteen yuan.” They aren’t chasing youth, and they aren’t rebelling — they’re exercising a right: I have the right to decide who I am.

I call this right “subjectivity.”

II

Subjectivity is not a concept that only exists today. But it is erupting en masse today because the economic foundations and social conditions that support it have finally matured.

In my earlier pieces, “From Scarcity to Abundance to Emotion: Forty Years of Change in Chinese Consumption” and “In the Third Consumption Era, Every Brand Must Start Over,” I divided Chinese consumption into three eras. These three eras are not simply economic periods — behind them stand three different kinds of people.

Only by understanding these three kinds of people can you understand why middle-aged women drink Jingjiu, why men born in the ’80s dye their hair blond, why young people won’t drink baijiu, won’t eat staple grains, won’t buy luxury brands — and why your brand is selling less and less.

III

The same person chooses Moutai at a business banquet, craft beer at a casual gathering with friends, and pour-over coffee when alone.

The same person wears Uniqlo to work, lululemon to the gym, and Anta to run.

Has he changed? His income hasn’t changed, his identity hasn’t changed. What’s changed is that he exercises different judgment rights in different settings. In a business setting, he’s still willing to accept the old logic that “brand tier equals the caliber of the relationship”; at a gathering with friends, what he wants is “does it taste good, does it feel comfortable”; when alone, what he wants is “does this drink match my mood right now.”

One person, three different value rankings. In the past a brand only needed to win over one; now it has to face all three at once.

This isn’t a generational shift, and it isn’t “young people don’t understand baijiu.” What’s really changed isn’t what consumers “want” — it’s who has the right to define what’s worth it.

Now, let me sketch out more clearly who these people behind the three eras are.

The Role Person: “Who Do I Belong To?”

The first consumption era ran roughly from 1979 to 1999. This was a stage of scarcity economics.

According to National Bureau of Statistics data, in 1978 the Engel coefficient for China’s urban residents was 57.5%, and as high as 67.7% in rural areas — household spending was dominated by food, with most income going to “eating.” Per capita disposable income was just 171 yuan. Room for choice was extremely limited, and a consumer’s identity was defined mainly by their work unit, family, urban-rural status, and occupational role.

I call the consumer of this era “the Role Person.”

The Role Person’s core question is: can this help me fulfill the tasks assigned to me by family and society?

People today look at the Role Person and think they were bound by their role. But in an environment of scarcity, submitting to a role wasn’t a forced sacrifice — it was the most rational choice. You trusted your work unit, your extended family, the idea that “food is heaven for the people,” not because you had no self, but because outside those relationships you had neither resources nor an answer to “who am I.” Submitting to a role was the optimal solution given that environment.

In the lingering aftereffects of agricultural and clan-based society, a person’s security, resources, and meaning came mainly from the community. The community protected the individual, and it also defined the individual. Who someone was, was first determined by birth. Outside these relationships, an individual risked losing not only resources but also the basic answer to “who am I.”

The core value of this era was: everyone stays in their proper place. Subjectivity hadn’t disappeared — it simply expressed itself as “playing one’s role well.”

In this stage, baijiu was essential material for festivals, weddings, and hosting guests — “having liquor on the table” mattered more than individual taste. Grain and cooking oil needed no explanation — food is heaven for the people. Feng Hua and Dabao didn’t need brand stories — you used whatever was on the shelf.

A brand’s main promise was reliability, a channel’s main job was getting goods delivered, and advertising’s main task was to announce function and build basic trust.

The Achievement Person: “Who Can I Become?”

The second consumption era ran roughly from 1999 to 2019. The Engel coefficient fell to 30%-50%, and the economy entered a stage of abundance.

In this stage, goods were abundant, urbanization accelerated, incomes grew, and social mobility became a shared experience. Consumption shifted from solving problems of daily life to proving “how well I’m doing.” Brand, price, scarcity, and visibility became tools for encoding identity.

I call the consumer of this era “the Achievement Person.”

The Achievement Person thought they had broken free of the constraints of role and won the freedom to choose. But what was free was only “which brand to choose,” not “which standard to choose.” Society no longer dictated who you were, but it dictated what counted as success. You could choose Moutai or Wuliangye, but you couldn’t choose “not to prove you’d succeeded.” It looked like liberation from role, but it was really just a change of mask.

The Achievement Person’s core question is: can this prove my ability, my position, and my investment in the relationships that matter?

Imagine someone born in the 1980s. When their family bought its first color TV as a child, the whole family’s excitement wasn’t about “how good this TV’s picture quality is,” but about “our family has a color TV now too” — that’s the joy of the Role Person, solving the question of “do we have it or not.” But by the 2000s, this person started swapping out their Changhong TV for a Sony, not because the Changhong had gotten worse, but because the Sony could prove “I’m doing well.” They bought Coca-Cola instead of Future Cola, not because Future Cola tasted bad, but because Coca-Cola meant “I can afford international brands.” This is the migration from the Role Person to the Achievement Person: the same act of consumption, but the standard of judgment shifted from “can I use it” to “can it prove my position.”

After marketization, individual desire began to gain legitimacy. Making money, improving one’s life, pursuing success were no longer automatically seen as selfish, but gradually became legitimate life goals. Differences between people were no longer determined mainly by birth and organizational status, but increasingly by income, occupation, spending power, and education.

This era didn’t free people from all standards — it replaced the old standards of role with new standards of success. You could choose your own life, but society had already preset for you what counted as success: a better job, a higher income, a bigger house, more respectable consumption.

Baijiu completed an important transformation during this period — from a ritual tool within the traditional order of relationships into an identity marker of successful people. Which liquor you drank was no longer just a matter of taste, but a question of which tier you belonged to.

But it wasn’t just baijiu. Nike and Adidas conquered young people’s feet with narratives of athletic spirit. Master Kong and Uni-President built beverage empires on channel coverage and brand trust. P&G perfected the “function plus brand” playbook.

In the era of the Achievement Person, brand authority came from being “leading, scarce, and prestigious.” Channels moved from simple distribution toward deep distribution and terminal control. Advertising moved from announcing function toward narratives of success.

The Sovereign Person: “What Is Worth My Investment?”

The third consumption era runs from 2019 to the present. Urban residents’ Engel coefficient has stabilized below 30%, the marginal utility of material goods is diminishing, and consumption has entered a stage centered on emotion, experience, and identity.

I call the consumer of this era “the Sovereign Person.”

The Sovereign Person’s core question is: does this match my feelings and values? Can I freely enter and exit? Does this relationship recognize me as a whole person?

“Sovereignty” isn’t willfulness, and it isn’t a rejection of all community. It refers to the individual holding greater final say over their body, time, attention, identity, and relationships. It includes at least four rights:

The right to interpret. I have the right to interpret my own feelings. If baijiu doesn’t taste good, I can say it doesn’t taste good, instead of being lectured that “you just don’t understand liquor yet.” If a bottle of sparkling water costs ten yuan, I can ask “is it worth it,” instead of being told “those who understand, understand.”

The right to choose. I can decide which relationships to enter, and which to exit. Whether to drink or not, whether to eat staple grains or not, whether to buy luxury brands or not — in principle, all of these should require my consent. I can choose to drink Genki Forest instead of Coke, not because Coke tastes bad, but because I’m choosing the healthier option — and that choice doesn’t need a brand to make it for me.

The right to exit. I can refuse uncomfortable pressure to drink, comparisons, and relational blackmail, without automatically incurring moral condemnation for it. Feeling unwell, having to work the next day, not liking the taste — things that in the past might have been seen as killing the mood can today increasingly be expressed as reasonable boundaries.

The right to build. The first three rights are about saying “no” — refusing to be defined, refusing to be locked in, refusing to be forced. The fourth right is about saying “then I’ll build one myself” — I not only refuse old rituals, I can also work with others to redefine how we celebrate, commemorate, socialize, and express ourselves. Jingjiu’s female consumers didn’t wait for the brand to launch a new function — they mixed up “Flame Rose” themselves, turning a middle-aged health tonic into “a strong woman’s liquor.” The brand didn’t define the meaning; consumers created the meaning themselves.

Together, these four rights have changed one thing: in the past, a brand could dictate meaning first and then require the consumer to step into it; now, the consumer scrutinizes whether the brand understands them, and whether it has left room for them to choose and exit.

Feeling Becomes Legitimate Evidence for the First Time

In the traditional order, personal feelings were often treated as something to be overcome. If it didn’t taste good, you were supposed to learn to drink it anyway. If you felt uncomfortable, you were supposed to endure it. If you didn’t like something, you were supposed to think of the bigger picture.

Today’s change is: my discomfort is, in itself, information that deserves to be taken seriously.

For baijiu, this point is extremely critical. In the past, the industry could say, “This is just what baijiu tastes like, you need to learn, adapt, and grow into it.” Now, consumers say: “If it doesn’t taste good, why should I train myself to accept it?”

What’s behind that statement isn’t a matter of taste. It means the power relationship between product and consumer has reversed. In the past, the consumer had to prove they were worthy of the product. Now, the product has to prove it’s worthy of the consumer’s time, body, and emotions.

Look at why Jingjiu got seized by young women. A health tonic launched in 1989, with astragalus and goji berries printed on the bottle, marketed as something that “nourishes the kidneys and boosts vitality.” But young women said, “after a hard day, I deserve to treat myself to a drink” — that feeling is itself legitimate evidence, and doesn’t need anyone else to explain “why are you drinking a middle-aged man’s liquor.” Jingjiu never taught consumers “you need to understand tonic culture” — it was simply taken up by consumers themselves and given an entirely new meaning.

Now look at why traditional beverages lost market share to new-style tea drinks. A 15-yuan cup of milk tea offers thirst-quenching function that a 3-yuan traditional drink already satisfies. But consumers went for the milk tea anyway — because what they wanted wasn’t just fluid replenishment, but a drink that made them happy. Feeling became the standard of judgment; functional specs are no longer the self-evident answer.

Subjectivity First Expresses Itself as the Right to Refuse

Today, a huge number of popular expressions are, in essence, refusals: refusing internal friction, refusing ineffective socializing, refusing people-pleasing, refusing condescending “dad energy,” refusing workplace PUA manipulation, refusing to spend for the sake of face, refusing to trade one’s body for relationships.

Why does subjectivity first express itself as refusal? Because building a new way of life requires ability, resources, knowledge, and sustained action. But refusing the old way of life only requires saying “no.”

Refusal is the first step in the awakening of subjectivity, but it isn’t the endpoint. The harder question is: after refusing, what are you prepared to build? Rejecting the old drinking-table culture doesn’t mean human beings no longer need connection, celebration, and shared ritual. Rejecting the traditional workplace doesn’t mean you already possess the ability to survive independently.

Learning to say “no” is only the beginning of a person’s transition from object to subject.

Mixue is an interesting example. A cup of lemon water for 4 yuan, 46,000 stores worldwide, 24.8 billion yuan in revenue in 2024. It isn’t selling “the best-tasting drink” — it’s selling “affordable happiness.” When consumers choose Mixue, it’s essentially also a kind of refusal — refusing to pay a premium for store decor, refusing to spend an extra twenty yuan for a brand logo. But at the same time, it’s also building something: a way of life where “real pleasure can be had for very little money.”

Relationships Shift from Identity-Based Obligation to Ongoing Negotiation

In the past, once a relationship was established, obligations were often dictated directly by identity. Because you were a child, you had to obey. Because you were an employee, you had to sacrifice. Because you were a friend, you had to drink this cup.

People today increasingly refuse to accept that identity automatically produces unlimited obligation. Relationships are starting to be reunderstood as a form of cooperation that requires ongoing negotiation: only if you respect me will I be willing to invest; only if this gathering makes me feel good will I be willing to attend.

This means every traditional organization faces the same problem: identity alone is no longer enough to earn loyalty. Family, company, brand, marriage, and community all must continuously prove that the relationship is worth continuing.

Baijiu once bound itself to social occasions through a kind of “compliance test.” But once consumers started asking, “do I really need to drink with my boss?”, that bond to the occasion began to loosen. The occasion itself hasn’t disappeared — the mandatory role within the occasion has.

The traditional instant noodle industry has gone through the same loosening. Master Kong and Uni-President once bound themselves to travel and overtime occasions through “convenient plus tasty.” But once consumers started asking, “do I really need to eat a pack of high-sodium fried noodles,” that bond to the occasion loosened. It’s not that the instant-noodle occasion disappeared — people still need convenient food — it’s that consumers no longer accept the default setting that “convenient must mean unhealthy.” Self-heating rice bowls, pre-made meals, and healthy instant foods have risen on the back of this shift.

Authority Shifts from “Naturally Correct” to “Must Explain Itself”

In the past, a long history was itself legitimacy. Expert status was itself legitimacy. Brand standing was itself legitimacy.

Today, people keep asking: what does this history have to do with me? What is the expert’s judgment actually based on? Why is the brand worth this price?

You can no longer say: because we’ve always done it this way, you should too.

“A thousand years of heritage” only proves you’ve been around a long time — it doesn’t automatically prove you’re relevant to people today. Old-name baijiu brands say “intangible-cultural-heritage craftsmanship”; consumers ask, “can this heritage craftsmanship make the drink more pleasant for me?” Old grain and oil brands say “decades of consistent quality”; consumers ask, “what does consistent quality have to do with my health needs right now?” Traditional beverage brands still talk about their “classic formula”; consumers ask, “what does a classic formula have to do with the low-sugar life I want today?”

Authority hasn’t disappeared — it’s just that authority which offers no explanation is losing its force.

An Important Paradox

One point needs emphasis: the growth of subjective awareness doesn’t mean everyone has equal resources and capacity to act.

Many people already know they don’t want to be pressured into drinking, yet may not be able to bear the relational cost of refusing at a workplace or family banquet. They know they want a more authentic life, yet may not have the time, income, and stable community needed to build it.

So in contemporary consumption, an asymmetry keeps showing up: refusing the old order is easier than creating a new one; subjective awareness is growing faster than the capacity to act as a subject.

This also explains why expressions like “light burden,” “small certain happiness,” “solitude,” and “relaxed vibe” have become popular — what they offer first is a form of exit and a chance to breathe. But if a brand only knows how to cater to exit, and can’t help consumers build new connections and community, so-called “self-pleasing” will ultimately collapse into a set of interchangeable emotional labels.

Judging Which Stage Your Consumers Are In

The three types aren’t rigid periods. The same person switches between them across different categories and situations: when buying daily necessities they look at function first; at a business banquet they care about relationship and identity; alone or with friends they emphasize taste, the body, and emotion.

But you can ask yourself a few questions to judge which stage the subject your category now faces is in:

If consumers are mainly asking “can I use it, is it expensive, can I even get it” — you’re facing the Role Person.

If what consumers care about most is “can it prove my position” — you’re facing the Achievement Person.

But if consumers start asking “does this suit me, can I opt out” — then you’re already facing the Sovereign Person.

Most traditional consumer goods categories are, today, facing consumers who are migrating from the Achievement Person toward the Sovereign Person. This migration isn’t linear, and it isn’t completed suddenly on any single day — but it is happening.

And how your brand should speak, how it should price, how it should design products, and how it should organize channels all depend on whether you clearly see who is standing across from you.

This is the second piece in the “Who Defines ‘Worth It’?” series. In the next piece, I’ll take apart the three pillars of the old narrative — authority endorsement, stock character roles, and preachy logic — and explain why they all fail at once in front of the Sovereign Person.