The beauty—and absurdity—of the Internet lies in its ability to rile people up in such a way that the drama of the day can be reduced to one tweet with no context. I saw one last night that said “Black Mirror: Skin Care” and I knew exactly what the author was referring to. A story published on The Outline Tuesday called "The Skin Care Con," in which writer Krithika Varagur took a guns-blazing yet remarkably unresearched approach to tearing down what she calls "New Skincare" a seemingly empty pastime embraced by millennial women because it’s cool and satiating, not because it’s helpful or useful. “A scam,” is what Varagur calls it.
I’m not looking to refute the core of her argument—Cheryl Wischhover over at Racked.com did that, and did it very well—but I feel compelled to insert myself into this conversation not only because of my experience covering beauty at various points in my career, but also because skin care, in many ways, has changed the way I present myself to the world, which wasn’t always easy.
After reading The Outline's story a few times, I’ll admit I don’t disagree with every point Varagur makes, though I think her frustration is misguided. I have certainly rolled my eyes at the It Girl mentality found in certain circles of skin care enthusiasts, and have felt disappointed when a roster of frequently recommended products by girls with cool clothes, cool hair, and cool jobs do nothing for me. I’ve also gotten angry at natural-skin-care brands that make irresponsible claims backed up by nothing but earnest testimony—such as the promise that garden-variety oils and esters can cure cystic acne. They cannot. Some oils might help keep chronic breakouts at bay, but cystic acne is the beast unto which my own obsession with skin care was born.
After having typical adolescent skin—zit smatterings and an oily T-zone—I found myself at age 15 faced with a rapid, violent outbreak of cystic acne that included quarter-sized nodules under the skin, and red, inflamed lesions on both cheeks that hurt to the touch. After many, many rounds of tetracyclines, I was placed on isotretinoin—a.k.a. Accutane—about a year later. Two pills daily for six months. I’ll spare you the details of the peeling skin, the bone-dry lips and eyes, and what it was like being a teenager having to sign paperwork pledging she won’t get pregnant because of the severe birth defects the drug can cause—all while her male doctor looks on. This was before iPledge.
I was deeply distraught. I was grateful to be on Accutane—painful acne was a misery—but at that age, outward appearance dictates a lot, and I wasn’t comfortable with mine. I decided my best recourse was to start wearing makeup—dense, matte, full-coverage foundation to mask what wasn’t really able to be masked. But at age 16, I had no idea how to properly buy or apply makeup. So, traumatized, I made a trip to the drugstore and grabbed the first bottle of Revlon ColorStay foundation I saw, not bothering to check the shade. It looked white, and I was white. That’s how it works, right? I also quickly realized that if you wear as much makeup as I did, you have to remove this makeup at night; my first experience with routine daily washing. My cleanser of choice back then was bar soap, Cetaphil or Yardley, and—because Accutane sucks all the moisture out of your skin—I also leaned on attainable moisturizers like Lubriderm, often mixed with SPF 30, because light is not your friend on Accutane. Voila, cocktailing.
In six months, the worst of my cysts had subsided and I’d familiarized myself with the nightly routine of washing my face to remove my makeup, though I never strayed from Cetaphil for fear of my acne returning; never mind it was knocked out of me by ungodly doses of vitamin A.
In college, my face looked better but not great—I still habitually wore a ton of makeup to cover the indents and scarring my acne had left behind. It was there, though, in the dorm bathroom, that I discovered a gateway rainbow of drugstore face wash, each claiming they did different things; each I’d never tried thanks to an adolescence filled with caution. The gold of Neutrogena Oil Free Acne Wash, the sky-blue gel of Clean & Clear, the peach of St. Ives Apricot scrub. I’d try whatever my friends had in their shower caddies, while staring into the mirror and talking—mostly about parties and our bitchy RA, but I remember those communal nights and mornings well.
After college—early 2000s—my acne was mostly gone but I was faced with a new affliction—circular dry facial patches that would flare up whenever they felt like it and were resistant to derm-prescribed hydrocortisone, to Vaseline, to straight-up olive oil. Patches that were so flaky, I couldn’t wear foundation without looking like I had a polka-dotted face. It was then I discovered the beauty of a website called MakeupAlley, a first-gen digital community of impassioned beauty fanatics who swapped reviews, tips, and stories. It was on that site, practically still in beta, that I discovered some people swear that two uncoated aspirin melted by lukewarm water with a little honey can help heal dry, inflamed patches—and you know what? That worked for me. It was also around this time I starting gently dipping my makeup sponges into iced coffee before applying foundation, swearing that the caffeine woke up my skin. I believe we now call these hacks.
In the decade-plus I’ve been covering women’s lifestyle, I’ve tried thousands of products and have graduated from hoarding lipsticks and bronzers to hoarding serums, moisturizers, exfoliants, and balms. It’s become a passion because I see results. In this space, I find I’m able to think analytically and critically about what actually works for me, not just what looks good or is flattering. There’s some work involved, and I find that satisfying—especially now that my skin and my hormones have settled into a place that allows me to experiment with different formulas according to problems I'm trying to fix.
There’s also an abundance of science as far as skin care goes—despite Varagur’s opinion that it's "chiefly about buying things, and displaying them for others to see." The trick, of course, is doing your science homework, which I know—based on some conversations I've had with women around the Glamour office—isn't always easy.
"If I'm being honest, I really don't know the science behind half of the products I use and why they're 'good for me,'" our social media director Madeline said, adding that she's often as guilty as the people mentioned in the Outline story who know little about the powerful ingredients they're using but slather them on anyway. Usually because a certain product is permeating their feed. "It’s not clear how those ingredients will interact with each other or how they’ll impact my skin," she said.
It took me a long time to resist the urge to buy whatever cream I felt like at Sephora or to rip open every expensive treatment I see in the beauty closet at work. During the last year or so, I've become much more attuned to what I'm putting in—and on—my body for many reasons, and I've committed to taking the time to learn. I have a steady dermatologist, which I hadn't had since my Accutane days, and I email her questions if I have them. I google. I ask friends who are beauty editors. I read packaging, not just look at it. For my own health, I've chosen to educate myself about why products are able make the promises they do.
I now know exactly what acids—AHA, BHA, glycolic, lactic, malic, citric, salicylic—do, and which ones work for me. I know that humectants and hyaluronic acid are essential for my lifelong dry skin. I know how to apply retinols responsibly. I know the rejuvenating power of a vitamin-C serum, because—feeling overwhelmed by the bottles on my bedside table—I asked my dermatologist to suggest one nonnegotiable product during my last visit.
Varagur mentions a few of the above ingredients but assigns them blame, writing, “At the core of the New Skincare is chemical violence.” Nope. Chemical violence is not seeking out things that have been proven effective to look and feel better. It is not being curious about Biologique p50—which comes with a mass of printed instructions—or wanting to try out Glossier’s new chemical exfoliator. Chemical violence is slathering deodorant on your face as a primer because you saw it on YouTube. It’s dousing your face with Pepto Bismol because a supermodel thinks it works. It’s ordering Juvederm online and injecting it at home.
I do not find self-worth in the "enormous quantity" of products I use, despite Varagur’s argument. In fact, it's just the opposite. There's nothing better than finding a core few that work in tandem to produce results. Today, my routine is face wash (Skinceuticals Gentle Cleanser), toner (Bioderma Sensibio), a morning serum (Skinceuticals CE Ferulic), moisturizer (I switch between M61's Hydraboost Cream and Desert Essence's Revitalizing Oils), an eye cream (Red Earth), and a twice-weekly retinol (A313, which I'd never heard of until my sister brought it back after a trip to France). I also have a weekly rotation of treatments to target different areas of concern (Dr. Brandt's Oxygen Facial Flash Recovery Mask for dullness, Drunk Elephant's T.L.C. Sukari BabyFacial for clogged pores and improved texture, and Dr. Gross' cool blue peel-off mask for hydration—and fun—are three I keep coming back to).
But considering the volume of innovative brands and breakthroughs, I'll always want to try new things, so I might switch or eliminate as I go—and that might mean spending a little more money. For example, I recently swapped my holy grail Clarisonic—which my skin was becoming resistant to—for the NuSkin Lumispa, and I unequivocally noticed a difference in tone, hydration, and clarity in literal days. Buying a new tool wasn't the equivalent of eating my feelings, so to speak, but rather an actionable thing I did to fix my enlarged pores and dull skin after a good amount of research.
In her article, Varagur instructs, “Before you start a militant skincare regimen, it’s instructive to think about why you want one."
Probably because I hid from the world in high school, and I have important things to accomplish daily that need my full confidence. Avoiding your gaze, hiding behind my hair, and being a slave to pan stick are things I'd rather not do, if possible. I like to look good, too.
I'm in my thirties and look younger than I am—much younger, I’ve been told. That could be because of my 5'2" frame, but I like to think it's because of my skin's tone and elasticity. I’m not saying this to boast—I was not blessed with good skin at birth. I treated it with one of the heaviest medications you can find, and ever since, I’ve tended to it—and not because anyone told me to, or because I'm chasing some bullshit ideal dictated by Instagram.
"Real, flawed women have real, flawed skin—it’s fine," Varagur writes. Yeah, we know. I don't think any skin-care-obsessed woman I've met flips out over a blemish or a breakout. If anything, she's able to identify the cause—a new ingredient, a bad-eating week, PMS. And if she can't, she'll ask for help. That ability to understand and take action, to me, is the definition of perfect skin.
Perrie Samotin is Glamour's digital deputy editor.
