Skin

from here

When I was younger, I used to look at my mum’s flawless skin and believe that when I was grown up I would enjoy a perfect, blemish-free face just like hers. She didn’t have the heart to tell me then that I’d inherited my father’s giant, over-productive pores (as well as his nose and moustache) and that I will probably be the only old lady in the world who still gets pimples. I honestly never thought that skin troubles would extend beyond my teenage years; I still have conversations with my face along the lines of, “We’re an adult now; did you not get that memo?!”

The skin on my face is so sensitive and break-out-prone that the mere thought of buying moisturiser from a supermarket makes it erupt in red, splotchy rashes. I used to work as the receptionist at a beautician, which meant I could get professional products for a decent price as well as free treatments each time a new employee needed testing or training – it was here that I first discovered that a perpetually itchy face was not normal. It could have been the best job in the world had my boss not been a compulsive liar who was frequently late for her first appointments and awfully open about her desire for Aboriginal people to no longer exist. 

After quitting my beautician job for my linguistics job (I was moving up in the world, people!), I soon ran out of my quality cleanser and moisturiser and decided to try to introduce my skin to ordinary, fragrance-free, super-sensitive, top-of-the-supermarket-range products in an attempt to save some money and wean myself off the good stuff. My face turned raw and flaky almost as soon as I grabbed them from the shelf at the shop. After about a week of suffering I called into a Dermalogica store with a friend before a movie one night, just to check out prices and look longingly at the products, and the woman who worked there was so horrified by my skin (I’m pretty sure the word “traumatised” was used) that she loaded me up with an armful of samples and wept for me as she waved us goodbye. I’ve been buying their products ever since.

If I was pressed, at gunpoint, to find a crumb of positivity about my dodgy skin, it would probably have something to do with the fact that my children will never be fooled into thinking that there’s a sure point at which skin troubles cease (“Other mums have great skin,” they’ll think, “But ours still doesn’t, so it must depend on genes rather than age,” and then they’ll hide under their doonas and cry their little hearts out). Also, Dermalogica packaging has made me laugh in the past. I try to remind myself of these perks when I’m feeling dejected as I inspect my spotty face in the mirror. I also tell myself that at least I’m not flaky, splotchy, itchy and spotty. It could be far, far worse.