Thin Skin
Normal skin is supposed to be soft, smooth, wrinkle-free and resembles a baby’s bottom. My face has, to the best of my knowledge, never resembled anyone’s bum. Through the teens and well into the thirties, my skin looked like an unbaked raisin bun. Opaque, pasty and spotty. I had a few years of almost spot-free skin though a cosmetic counter girl once told me I had Thin skin. I knew skin was categorised into Oily, Combination, Normal, Dry and Sensitive. But Thin?
“What’s Thin skin?” I asked her. She steered me to a mirror and poked at my right cheek.
“See those blue veins? That shows you have Thin skin. Normal people don’t have their veins showing.”
Oh. I think I somewhat understand.
“Do you have something for Thin skin?” I asked, fully expecting her to dump a pile of miracle cures and a bill in front of me.
“No. It’s genetic. There’s nothing anyone can do about it.” She said, then grabbing and waving a white bottle, quickly added, “But this Whitening Cream will fade your acne scars, which would make your skin look radiant and detract from your veins.”
She was obviously not someone to let a sales opportunity walk away, and she was good. I went to buy a powder compact re-fill and came away with Whitening Cleanser, Whitening Soap (to be used after the cleanser), Whitening Rinse (to be used after the soap), Whitening Toner, Whitening Day Cream, Whitening Night Cream, Whitening Serum (to be used before the Day and Night creams), Whitening Eye Cream (to prevent fine lines and eradicate dark circles) and Whitening mask (to be used once a week).
I managed to resist the Whitening Neck Cream and totally forgot the compact re-fill.
“Don’t forget to eat plenty of salads and fresh fruit. It’s good for Thin skin. And take Vitamin C!” She called, as I rushed from the counter, credit card still buzzing hot in my purse.
Cracked Surfaces
Anti-wrinkle serums have edged the pimple blasters off the bathroom shelves. No matter how much H2O i drink, my face is beginning to resemble the sun-baked surface of a dried-up mud-bottomed pond in the Kalahari desert.
Particularly at the outer corners of the eyes. The politically-correct term is laughter lines. But let’s not wrap bad news in cotton wool. I’ve got wrinkles. Yes, at age 50-something, my face is cracking up.
“You’re actually quite well-preserved for someone of your age.” Said F.
“Well, thanks. I think.” I said, “But I’m not a jar of pickles.”
“No. But you’re like a bottle of fine wine. Gets better as it gets older.”
That’s the trouble with asking for objective opinions from friends. They have this tendency to not want to hurt your feelings, so you can never get the full undiluted truth from them. So off to the cosmetic counter again. You can always depend on the girls there to give you all the gory details, and a solution to your problems.
This one brought out a magnifying glass and peered at my forehead, cheeks , chin and nose. These days, the girls from the cosmetic companies dress like doctors with their white front-buttoned shifts. The only thing that’s missing is the stethoscope draped around the neck. And doctors don’t usually wear heavy makeup nor lash extensions. I waited for the diagnosis. Her intense expression and pursed lips told me this was something serious.
She consulted some charts then made her pronouncement.
“You have dry, sensitive skin.”
Tags: humour, life, middle age, midlife crisis, personal, random thoughts, skin
