Those of you who know me IRL might recall that I have never had an easy relationship with my skin. Iâ€™m not talking about out-and-out chronic acne; more a misery of my own making. Basically, I hit puberty, discovered the sordid pleasure of squeezing blackheads, and never looked back – as a teenager, whole hours were spent peering into a magnifying mirror at close range, expunging gunge, then realising the extent of my self harm and panicking. I would dunk my face in a sinkful of cold water, or call to my brother for ‘Ice!’ like an extra on Casualty, or even resort to leaving the house with my hair swept right across my face. It was not pretty. Eventually, the Pill helped.
Everyone used to reassure me that at some point, my skin would clear up – but through my twenties, and both during and after pregnancy, the spots just wouldnâ€™t die. However, for the past few months, and through no real effort on my part, Iâ€™ve noticed that my skin has – finally – started to look and feel miles better. Itâ€™s taken me a few months to trust that this is not just a phase, but now I am beginning to believe that, wrinkles and future degeneration aside, my skin and I might be over the worst.