Everyday, we are inundated with adverts promoting skin-care products promising to ‘transform’ us or ‘correct’ our skin, as if our natural state is a mistake to run away from as quickly as possible. Treatments for acne-prone skin are advertised alongside models without a single blemish or mark upon their skin, creating the illusion that a certain cream or face wash will completely change the natural basis of your skin. It is ingrained in us that any deviation from ‘perfect’ skin must be relentlessly pursued and hidden from public sight, pouring shame on those of us who dare to feel comfortable in our own skin.
The expressed aim of skin-care brands is to cultivate a culture of perfection in which everyone strives to become an ‘ideal’, regardless of the fact that they have to airbrush models until they look like wax work figures to convey this ‘ideal’ image in their ad campaigns. The vast majority of such products are crammed full of chemicals such as sulfates and parabens, in addition to other chemicals that I cannot spell let alone pronounce. Then we are commonly expected to pay irrationally high prices for the pleasure of possessing these products so that we can smear these chemicals across our face as we chase skin-perfection with ever increasing desperation.
For me, years of longing for my acne to clear and my numerous trials of consistently failing skin-care products has left me very skeptical and resentful of the beauty industry (maybe you can tell!). In my opinion, the narrative around skin-care should focus on nourishment rather than perfection. We should focus on taking care of and protecting our skin which will be ours to the day we die rather than damaging it in the pursuit of perfection at any cost. Our bodies and skin are things to be cherished and appreciated rather than scorned and hated. Yes, skin problems can be painful and annoying to deal with but they are not the sum of who we are and do not warrant us feeling worthless and ashamed. Caring for ourselves rather than constantly criticising is innumerably more rewarding.
‘It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.’ – Leo Tolstoy
‘Beauty is a radiance that originates from within and comes from inner security and strong character.’ – Jane Seymour
Who am I?
The mirage I see in the mirror
Or the crayon drawing of an oversized child?
A twisted, morbid, relic
The mask of chaotic innocence.
Should I be ashamed, afraid,
Confused, depressed or scared?
Love is not written on my arms,
Assurance is not absorbed in my veins
And my heart doesn’t pump,
Not like I remember it used to.
Today, I find myself staring at my blank computer screen, the brilliant white of a draft blog post staring blatantly back at me. And I feel intimidated. What I am looking at doesn’t seem to be a computer screen anymore, it’s taken on it’s own lease of life, masquerading as the many faces of people I dearly wish will never find this indescribably small corner of the internet that I inhabit. All of these faces leer at me, telling me that my writing isn’t good enough, that everything I say is cliched and that I should be embarrassed to spend my time pouring out these immature words. So, I feel afraid to write and my hands keep hovering hesitantly over my keyboard, frozen in a panic about whether or not they can trust my mind to give them good enough words to type out.
I’ll be honest, most of these faces take the appearance of people who have taught me over the years. People who have seemed to me to be impossibly clever, even scarily so as I remember their Oxbridge certificates taking pride of place on their walls, almost as if to prove my own inadequacy to me. Their faces contort into amused sneers in my mind’s eye as they look at me with the knowledge that what I write is absolute drivel that could never impress anyone. The way they look at me feels paralysing.
I don’t whether the force of their intimidation in my head is so strong because I got my first semester University results on Friday. The crude grading of my supposed intelligence and understanding has always felt frightening to me, as if the sum of my parts is presented on that results page in a disappointingly low percentage which classifies me as simply average. Whatever the mark, results are always a distinct bash to my confidence because it reminds me of how my future is in the hands of other people who are undoubtedly intellectually superior to me and probably marked my papers thinking how basic my work was. The most I can do is stick a figurative middle finger up at these pretend critiques which my mind has twisted out of the faint shadows of people I either used to know or barely know at all and continue to write in spite of the faces which drift across my consciousness.