The Simple Life

An Elaborate, Or Esoteric, Skin-care Routine Is No Longer Just About Dermal Improvement. It’s Part Status Symbol, Part Therapy Regimen, Part Bonding Ritual. But What Happens When Your Face Just Can’t Take It? Lauren Larson Reports From Inside A Really Unsexy Medicine Cabinet.

Until I was 28, my skin was a checkerboard of super oily and super dry patches, united by Whac-A-Mole acne: As soon as a pimple would go away, it seemed to reappear on the opposite side of my face. I imagined my hormones running frantically from one side of my body to the other, as though aboard a severely unbalanced boat. But at last, thanks to several dramatic life changes—namely, leaving a stressful job and discovering retinol—I now have good skin.

But “good skin” means something different for me than it does for my friend and enemy Emma, who has glowy, poreless skin that stays glowy and poreless no matter what she puts on it. I live in constant fear of upsetting my fussy face. Among many other things (including the sun and humidity levels under 40 percent or over 60 percent), I have learned to avoid the following: coconut oil, most artificial fragrances, glycolic acid, salicylic acid, “rich” moisturizers, and anything that promises to “illuminate.” Only retinol is allowed past the blockade, in small dosages, for acne control.

Still, I badly want to participate in fancy, or even just messy, skin-care culture. As early as the ’90s, I looked forward to growing up and letting a mask harden on my face like Julia Roberts in My Best Friend’s Wedding. In middle school, my friends and I would mash up avocados and egg whites and let the stuff sit on our faces until it turned brown.