#SimplicityOverPerfection

[ejaydoeshisbest]

Skincare Struggles in Your 20s: Why It’s Okay to Choose Simplicity Over Perfection

Thoughts about skincare. Journaled when I was in my early to mid-twenties.

I’m sick of using skincare.

No, that’s not accurate. I am sick of not seeing much improvement after rounds of skincare. Years—I’ve been doing this for years—only to be disappointed each time I look in the mirror and see the same number of blackheads and small, itchy bumps ruining my face. I’m sick of convincing myself each morning that it’s getting better when it’s not—it’s just not getting worse. Which is good, I guess.

To clarify, I’ve been using drugstore products. Neutrogena and other stuff. When I finally went to a dermatologist, my jaw dropped. Ain’t no way I am spending that kind of money for clear skin. That kind of money could cover a samgyupsal promo five times a month. That kind of money could fill a small bookshelf with the works of my favorite novelists. That kind of money could repair the many leaking faucets and broken tiles in our house. That kind of money could pay for a round trip to the beaches of Cebu.

I could use that money for actual health concerns, like complete bloodwork or therapy for my scoliosis. Or for my furbaby’s vet. I could use it for protein powder and creatine and nicer clothes. I could use it to treat my friends and family.

Besides, I am not a freaking influencer. It is not my job to look and stay pretty. Why am I trying so hard?

I’m not saying one shouldn’t invest in one’s appearance, of course. Pretty privilege is real. Charm and swagger can get you what you want in a shallow society that prizes beauty. But I’m going to make sure I do the bare minimum, because the effort isn’t worth it in my life. I am a couch potato who works remotely. I don’t need to see people. Even when I do, people aren’t there for my looks, anyway. I am not going to go to great lengths to maintain this.

Doesn’t mean I won’t stop feeling envious, though. I’d be lying through my teeth if I said looking at acne-free people didn’t make me want to claw at their flawless faces. Especially when both of our faces share a mirror. My eyes zip from their spotless complexion to my rough, dry one. But the momentary insecurity soon fades. They go their own way, and I go mine. I read books and write and do my work, and I forget it all. I pet my dog. I’ll be fine. I look in the mirror and shrug at the red, angry bumps I see there. I’m doing all I can to fight it.

I’ll buy the cheapest drugstore brands and stick to what works best. I’ll happily accept whatever soaps my relatives throw my way. But I’m not going to go to great lengths to improve this complexion.

I suppose I just want my old, unproblematic skin back. The one I had in high school and half of college. The kind of skin that remained clear even as I overate sugar and milk and stayed up way too late binge-watching or cramming for an exam. But I have to accept that this is my reality now.

It’s one less thing to worry about, too, especially with my constant struggles with scoliosis and other health concerns. Bumps and rough patches on my skin seem so trivial. If it worsens, I’ll reconsider a dermatologist. But until it causes me actual physical harm, I’ll just apply the most basic facial wash or bar soap, slather on sunscreen, and hope for the best.

Words: Ejay Diwas