I usually find it lazy to begin writing with a disclaimer, but I’m already breaking my rules by writing about my face, so here goes nothing: My name is Maria Sherman, and I’m product-phobic.
I’ve always been this way. My Puerto Rican mother was blessed with perfect, softer than a cloud, hazelnut skin (perhaps due to her fairly conservative young adulthood—she’s never picked up a cigarette, drank more than three drinks in one sitting, seen a drug, stayed out past 9:30 p.m., been outside, etc.) and for some reason, I’ve banked on genetics to get me through life as a baby butt-faced beaut. If that’s the name of the game, I failed to include my father’s DNA in the equation—that fair skinned, blue-eyed yank is perpetually pink with a light sunburn and who knows what lies beneath his beard.
This is all relevant: Over the weekend I took a last-minute flight to accompany my mother to a few oncology appointments (she’s been in remission for six months now, cancer can kiss my fat ass!!!) in Texas, where my parents recently relocated from the perpetually soggy Pacific Northwest. That wet climate probably had some effect on my skin/face/brain, and now, Tejas is a whole new landscape—a dry heat that requires being mindful of my largest organ’s wants and needs. I’m no expert and have an extremely limited understanding of how to deal with shotgun-happy desert hell, and so I really, truly, underestimated its effect on my poorly-attended-to skin cells. It was a disaster.
Morning
It’s about 7 a.m., and there’s a westie puppy here, so I am awake. I run to the bathroom, where the puppy is also present. I pet him. I wash my hands. Then I wash my face with water and Tea Tree Clearing Facial Wash, because it’s what is available to me via my mom’s bathroom. I usually opt for whatever face-friendly soap item is around (at home, it’s a Dove Moisturizing Bar) and new scenery ain’t gon change me.
My face, for most of my life, has been remarkably free of blemishes, save for a brief acne phase in my tween-age, when I burned off my puberty skin and was born anew through many, many semesters of obsessive Clearsil Rapid Rescue use. When I started experimenting with smoking cigs in my 20s, however, that changed; my skin started to suck and I became loyal to Clean & Clear Morning Burst Facial Cleanser in the a.m., and Clean & Clear Night Relaxing Deep Cleaning Face Wash before bed. Unfortunately neither are available to me right now, so I’m positive I’ll turn an unattractive peach soon. But look! I remembered Cetaphil Foaming Face Wash for redness-prone skin! All is well.
Next, I apply Equate Scar Gel to the scar on the top right corner of my fivehead—after butchering baby bangs onto a face that cannot support the shape, I’ve taken to straightening them for length, which lead to me placing a 400 degree iron directly to the skull. It’s healing nicely—your skin has a certain plasticity to it that can not be undervalued—but it, too, requires a product. If only I took my co-worker Ecleen Caraballo’s advice and embraced my natural curls. (I do on occasion, but it’s an ongoing process.)
I also apply Crest Noticeably White Whitestrips to give my teeth a false, but illustrious, shine.
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