As someone who had severe acne in my formative years, the importance of a skincare routine was realised sooner than most. Growing up, I watched my mother wash her face every morning, slap on moisturiser (literally slap – with two hands, all over. I’ve always been a skeptic but she’s in her early 50s and her skin is excellent) and SPF50+ sunscreen.
When I started breaking out at the age of 10, my mother and I took to the supermarket skincare aisle, stocking up on Clean and Clear ‘morning burst’ cleanser (yes, the one with the allusive beads), T.N. Dickinson’s witch hazel and QV moisturiser. Tea tree oil was all the rage back then – every night before bed, I would dab tea tree oil on my acne, the smell simultaneously invigorating and nauseating.
To no one’s surprise, none of these products did much for my skin. My parents, befuddled by the ineffectiveness of their unresearched Woolworths products, turned to Chinese medicine and acupuncture for answers. I drank bitter potions steeped with various white roots and medicinal-scented barks every morning and on the weekend, I laid on squeaky plastic beds with thin needles sticking out of my torso. After months of these routines, we gave up on treating my acne. My parents hoped it was a hormonal phase that would eventually pass.
"My emotional attachment to the products, the science and the ritual of it all grew stronger with each purchase."
Luckily, this was the case. Despite the gradual reversal of several years of red, scabby pimples (courtesy of oral contraceptive Microgynon30), I still committed to my skincare. It was driven by a quasi-superstitious fear that if I stopped washing my face for one day, all the spots would return immediately.
At the end of high school, I invested my own money into upgrading my routine – bottles of BHA and AHA, chemical peel (specifically the red, viscous The Ordinary peel that was technically banned in Australia) and hyaluronic acid. I consumed content from various dermatologists and skincare influencers, treating the information as if it was a case study and I was the subject. My emotional attachment to the products, the science and the ritual of it all grew stronger with each purchase. No wonder the global skincare industry is worth $120bn.
"On the rare occasion I feel stressed, my routine becomes more experimental. Some people bake when they’re stressed... but when I’m under the pump, my face goes through the wringer."
At the risk of self-pathologising, my best guess is that my personal hyper-consumerist and hyper-fixative behaviour was a coping mechanism for years of not being in control of my face and body – use this, wear this, drink this, lie here, sleep more, don’t touch your face.
These days, I am loyal to only four products (La Roche Posay Effaclar Purifying Cleanser, Kiehl’s Ultra Facial Cream, Kiehl’s Retinol Serum and Neutrogena Ultra Sheer Face Lotion Sunscreen). On the rare occasion I feel stressed, my routine becomes more experimental. Some people bake when they’re stressed (is it the self hatred-fuelled precise measuring or the fact that one can indulge in 25 hot, fresh shortbreads as a distraction?), but when I’m under the pump, my face goes through the wringer: a “deep” cleanse (an extra minute or two than usual) followed by a clay mask (for that weird tight feeling when it dries), a half-assed attempt at squeezing out my blackheads, a random toner (I don’t use toner but have amassed a collection of samples) and my trusty Kiehl’s retinol and cream (an obvious answer).
I relish in touching my face, staring into my pores and plucking my eyebrows – especially if I have a writing deadline. This routine isn’t for clearer or more beautiful skin but makes me feel more in control and physically real. Is it a healthy mechanism? That much is unclear but at least I’m not using Clean and Clear anymore.
