I have good skin. This statement doesn’t come from a place of conceit, or offense toward those who don’t. It is an objective truth, and I won’t hide behind some demure, participatory squeak of “no, no I really do get zits!” to make people comfortable, when honestly, I don’t. Not often, at least. Crucify me.
Despite winning a tiny chunk of the epidermal lottery (remember, I said good skin, not great skin), I spent years piling on makeup. I grew so accustomed to the bronzed, color-corrected version of myself that I felt a magnetic pull to the cosmetics aisle of CVS every week. I’d cartoonishly float through the aromatic cocktail of perfume at Sephora to my next $30 foundation, swearing I’d soon find my “holy grail that I’ll use forever!” That never happened. This phase was exhausting, and it made me view my natural look as mousy and forgettable. I decided that for me, to nurture self-confidence with a shelf life longer than a bottle of Maybelline Dream Liquid Mousse, some changes were in order.
My quest to bare-facedness began four years ago. In 2014 I read interviews with one of my career muses, Erika Bearman in which she revealed her beauty routine: heavy on the eyes, easy on the face. She’d glaze her lashes into doe-like territory and create a low-maintenance glow with bb cream or oil. The novelty! It never occurred to me that I could still look made up without a full face—that generously applied mascara could hold down the fort, and no one would notice I wasn’t wearing foundation. So I downgraded to bb creams and tinted moisturizers and was one step closer to naked skin.
That same year, I picked up a copy of my now all-time favorite book, How to Be Parisian Wherever You Are: Love, Style, and Bad Habits. A francophile since 8th grade, the effortless glamour within these pages became my gospel. There’s an entire section titled “Au Naturel,” which outlines “how to take care of yourself while giving the impression that you don’t take care of yourself”—the quintessential beauty mantra of every cigarette-smoking, rouge-lipped, jeans-blazer-flats-wearing French woman of my dreams. The subsection “On Skin” asserts that Parisians typically avoid foundation in favor of letting their natural skin tell its story. Their beauty needs no artifice beyond a dab of concealer under the eyes after a spontaneous night out. When you treat your skin with care and let it breathe, the fruits of your labor will show. You commit to a cabinet stocked with creams and serums and be sure to wash up before bed, and before you know it, airbrushed perfection is passé. Easy enough.
My face makeup usage became very cut and dry: big meetings, nights out, bartending shifts, Fridays in case I got asked to a happy hour. And then a few months ago, it hit me: I was quitting altogether. I didn’t develop some resentment toward face makeup or my propensity to wear it in certain settings. Something just told me I didn’t need it anymore, so I stopped. I’ve worn bb cream a couple times since, but overall, we’ve severed ties. I actually don’t even own any at the moment, which makes me feel a strange mix of relieved and unprepared. Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe I’ll run into nights where I wish I took that one step further and gave my face some extra oomph. But what matters to me is getting past the mental hump of needing it, so I’m going to enjoy this for what it is and keep it natural.
Now, to make this most of this fresh face…
I’d always liked the idea of having a skincare routine. Conceptually, it feels like a rite of passage into MILFhood, which appeals to my most shallow senses. My commitment had only gone as far as washing with a Dove beauty bar and moisturizing with the same generic body lotion I apply to freshly shaved legs. I also went through a 2-month stint of applying sweet almond oil to my face every day. Shout out to my friends who had to awkwardly ask why I looked so sweaty arriving slick-faced to trivia on Tuesdays. But dipping my toes in La Mer de Glossier (skincare humor) seemed like a supreme pledge.
I recently popped in Sephora and bashfully approached a sales associate like a virgin preparing for prom night. I wanted to craft a skincare routine, but didn’t know where to begin. She instantly rattled off key components and their benefits: Vitamin C for brightening. Collagen for strength and elasticity. Charcoal to remove impurities. She taught me about layering and the importance of toners, serums, creams, and masks all within like, seven minutes. I started sweating with intimidation as she recommended $60 mystery jars no deeper than a can of tuna. If I wanted to establish a skincare routine, Sephora would not be the source.
I took my new knowledge to TJ Maxx last week and raided their amalgamation of unknown brands for products that aligned with my goals. I bought a vitamin C serum for night, a collagen cream for day, and a charcoal mask to use every Sunday. After a week of my routine, I notice a real difference. My skin looks brighter, hydrated, even, and smooth! I feel qualified to start a YouTube channel like people who do Beach Body and immediately become wellness coaches! (That was a joke.) I paid around $6 per product, granting me the financially irresponsible freedom to try *all the things* going forward. Loopholes.
I always thought the skincare industry was predatory—that people pay exorbitant amounts for single-digit ounces of products that don’t make a difference. I thought good genes, healthy fats, lots of cardio, and water would carry my freshest face to the grave. But I stand corrected. There is something sincerely prideful about wearing your discipline on your luminous, bare face. I am a results-driven individual, and I look forward to delaying my inevitable botox.
Perhaps I spoke too soon in that opening paragraph. I feel something forming on my forehead, but I’ll blame menstruation, just like I do with binge eating and bitchiness.
Here’s my skin after one week of my TJ Maxx routine. I’m super pleased with the results!