Uncool Skin Care: A Tribute

Uncool Skin Care: A Tribute

 Do you know how to tell if your skin is unhealthy?

Reedit is where you receive your skin-care advice. Instagram is for people with flawless skin, whether it was given to them by God or purchased, who may show off their bare face to a jumble of coworkers, strange high school classmates, and even (gulp) exes.

What about Reedit? That's the platform for those of us who don't want our names associated with our faces, much less broadcasted publicly. Instead, we post under an anonymous pseudonym to a variety of other anonymous usernames, with all of our personal information blacked out.

I'm using the "royal we" because, as you might have guessed, I'm talking about myself. A dermatologist diagnosed me with perioral dermatitis around a year ago. Dr. Mary L. Stevenson, MD of NYU Lang one Health has provided an official definition:

"Perioral dermatitis is a skin disorder characterized by dry, flaky red skin and red pimples or papules." Although it resembles acne, it is a separate diagnosis with some therapy overlap. Itchy, red, dry, and swelling are also possible symptoms." My own definition is that hideous, raging spots erupt on the lower part of my face every couple of months. They're quite unpleasant, even with a lot of concealer, and they take forever to get rid of.

Toothpaste with fluoride! Contraception! Steroids! UV light! Certain sunblock's! Intensive moisturizer! Stress! The climate! "Flares can happen at times of stress," explains Stevenson, "particularly times of weather changes like shifts in the winter with dry, cold air."

I'm not sure what triggered mine. (I can relate to most, if not all, of the reasons listed above.) However, I can tell you this: I started to worry last summer, at the age of 29, that I wasn't doing enough to "de-age" my skin. I'd spent the entire time on Zoom, staring at my growing wrinkles.

I was on social media skimming past influencers dropping delicate oils on their porcelain-doll skin when I wasn't on Zoom, or I was Face Timing friends to pass the time when I wasn't on Zoom. We tanned for hours on the beach in Cabo San Lucas while drinking margaritas in college. We were suddenly spouting retinoid and "infant Botox" while sitting on couches.

As the lockdown relaxed, my group chat erupted with news that the Acme basement—my go-to nightclub when I was still on my parents' health insurance!—had reopened. "I'm leaving!" I remember thinking—and I was dead set on not bringing my eye bags with me.

My vanity spiraled out of control. I scheduled a luxury facial with a fancy facials in a fancy loft downtown, where I was massaged with various serums and lotions for 90 minutes. "This is placenta cream—for anti-aging," she explained, her soothing voice filling the room like a lullaby. She then put out all of the skin-care products she used at check-out.

I bought all of them, grimacing as she read the whole price out loud. Then I went next door to the beauty store and grabbed two different but equally pricey sunscreens off the shelf. I applied excessive amounts of them all in the days ahead.

I struggled not to conceal my scorching, scaly-red face in my hands as my dermatologist gazed at me through a computer screen weeks later. "Perioral dermatitis," she explained dryly. "Have you tried any new moisturizers or sunscreens recently?"

Yes, I said, shaking my head.

"I'd take them out of your schedule just to be safe," she said. She then gave me a long course of doxycycline.

I entered my bathroom and opened the cupboard. All of my gleaming new bottles returned my stare. I grumbled, "God dam nit." I tossed them all in the garbage.

I wish I could say it was due to a negative reaction to a skin-care product. That I finished the medication and the problem never occurred again. But perioral dermatitis isn't like that. It reappears without warning. It's sometimes just a minor flare-up. It feels like the entire area between my nose and chin is flaking and irritated at times.

("Do you have...powder on your nose?") 

During one particularly nasty incident, a coworker asked, pointing at my nostril.) My current episode began in March and continues until May. I become irritated. I'm feeling uneasy. I even cry sometimes, as foolish as that seems, despite the fact that, at the end of the day, it's just an aesthetic issue. And, as much as I want my perioral dermatitis would go away on its own, antibiotics are the only option to get rid of it.

I've attempted to take preventative precautions because I don't want to be popping those drugs for the rest of my life. I reduced my alcohol consumption. I switched from fluoride to charcoal toothpaste. I don't wear makeup unless I'm going out. I stopped eating dairy products. (While there is no scientific evidence that dairy causes perioral dermatitis, there are beliefs that it is bad for your overall complexion.) Also, one of my fellow Creditors mentioned it worked for them, so I'm willing to give it a shot.)

Finally, I seldom ever use any skin-care products.

That's correct. In an age when TikTok is flooded with "get ready with me" videos and influencers tout 30-step cosmetic processes, I'm down to just three products: CeraVe cleanser, moisturizer, and sunscreen. "Light cleansers and/or a gentle glycolic or sulfur wash, as well as gentle hydration from ceramides-containing products, are ideal easy and gentle skin care regimens," Stevenson explains.

Each one costs between $12 and $15 at CVS. It's the only routine that's kept my face clear so far. Most folks my age have a bathroom cabinet worthy of a Top Shelf. Mine, on the other hand, resembles that of a seventh-grade student who is cosmetically naïve.

CeraVe was something I used from middle school through the beginning of high school. I got it because my cool friend said it was the best way to avoid breakouts, despite being hormonal, uncomfortable, and knowing nothing about beauty. I had no idea she was more self-conscious about her appearance than I was. She'd recently started Accutane, but it turns out that CeraVe and Cetaphil are also safe for acne sufferers. Indeed, it is because of its friendly reputation that the brand went viral on TikTok in 2020 and flew off the shelves of retailers around the country.

As an adult, I have a greater respect for the no-frills brands that are accessible, affordable, and a lifesaver for those of us with problematic skin. Opting out of the high-end skin-care craze when it's constantly advertised to you is strange. My browser, as a 30-year-old woman, is littered with tailored adverts for $300 miracle creams. My Instagram feed is flooded with suggested Instagram posts for buzzy beauty start-ups with pastel interiors. On the metro, a sign that reads "Becoming old means getting old" stares at me.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't get nervous when I read about how skin-care ingredients should be organic and natural, or how someone my age should take retinoid. I still find it unusual that I am not working in an industry that society tells me I should be doing both implicitly and blatantly.

But then I think of Ponce de Leon, the Spanish explorer obsessed with discovering the Fountain of Youth. He believed that everyone who drank or bathed in the waters would regain their youth. He looked for it his whole life but never found it. The fountain turned out to be nothing more than a legend.

That maybe CeraVe isn't so bad after all.