a tale of adult acne
REBECCA VARCOE WISHES HER SKIN WOULD JUST GROW UP A BIT.
One of the greatest disappointments of my adult life has been the re-emergence of facial acne. At 15, it was expected; at 19, accepted. At 29? It’s infuriating in a way I never anticipated hygiene could be.
I’m a clean person. I shower daily – sometimes twice. I wash my hair, a lot. I change my sheets every Saturday morning. Growing up, I thought the combination of stabilising hormones and a rigid commitment to cleanliness would somehow shine out of my face, giving me the clear skin of an adult whose life is in order.
Instead, I’m nearing 30 and admitting with disappointment that I can't just slap sunscreen on in the morning, wash my face with warm water at night, and enjoy the fruits of my minimal labour. No – I have to execute an elaborate routine every damn day if I want to fight the furious pustules on my chin. And frankly, it's not fair. I thought adult skincare was only for ageing Hollywood starlets in black and white films, and I could get away with a few dabs of off-the-shelf Nivea to sort out my wrinkles once I hit 50. In my mind, an evening skincare routine looks like a 1950s TV commercial; my hair brushed to one side of my neck as I massage cream into my face and hands, staring serenely at my reflection from a neatly arranged dressing table. In reality, I stand at my bathroom sink in my saggy Cottontail undies (like a less-funny Bridget Jones), aggressively rubbing some kind of literal acid into my face. When my ponytailed head emerges from the sink, my mind is consumed with thoughts of how to scrub that green mould from the plughole. Then I catch sight of my reflection: mascara sliding off my eyes and down my face like some kind of horror movie monster. And so, the harrowing skincare experience begins, wiping tiny cotton pads all over my moon-shaped mug to mop up the mucky debris.
Once my make-up is removed, the journey with serums starts. Layers of thick gunk pile on one after another, with time spent waiting in between, wandering around the bathroom and fanning my sticky face. With each squirt of the pump bottle I calculate the cost per slather – how much will my vanity set me back? Who have I become? Apparently not a carefree writer who can just drink a litre of water each day and occasionally reference coconut oil to achieve glowing skin.
The worst part of my complex routine isn’t even the acid or creams – it’s that I’ve started taking a daily probiotic because I once read somewhere that the festering food and booze in my guts is making me break out. While I’m sure probiotics are good for my general wellbeing, I don’t enjoy the regular morning visual of parasites climbing up from my belly to erupt on my face. I have to think about that, and now, so do you. I bet Joan Didion never thought about gut parasites. I bet she just popped on a bit of sunscreen in the morning and washed her face with warm water at night. I bet Joan Didion never had godforsaken adult acne.
But, instead of writing fan mail to my favourite 83-year-old writer to ask for her skincare tips, I’ll trudge off to the bathroom, serums in hand, ready to perform my nightly ritual for the derma-gods. Sighing heavily, I’ll continue to do this every single night. Because I’m a responsible adult with acne, and this is my damn life now.