This Weird-Ass Beauty Product Made My Foot Peel Off Like Snakeskin

I've never been so intrigued and disgusted all at once.

Oct 8, 2013 at 3:00pm | Leave a comment

Catch me on that other xoSite where I masquerade as a beauty editor. 
 
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Ahh to be back over on xoJane, where I can write about gross beauty stuff and say, “cunt punt,” and, “saggy rotting ball sack,” to zero consequence. I have SO much to say about cunty punting and horny old dudes, but today I’m here to expound the virtues of Baby Foot.  
 
Yes, the name is weird. Yes, other insanely popular “baby”-branded cosmetics for adult women also exist. Yes, I could try to say something funny about this or make some sort of social observation but that tends to get me into trouble. Instead: product review!
 
First off: the packaging. I don’t know what it is about a single-use product that really gets me going. Kind of the same reason I don’t buy lattes in bulk, I want my face masks, deep conditioners, and foot peels to be a special moment in my day. For real, that $6 Argan oil masque makes my container of Kerastase Masque Elixir Ultime feel like a tub of Crisco. 
 
Oh, right, FOOT PEELS. Baby Foot is a foot peel containing AHAs, or cute little “fruit acids” which literally eat away at your dermis in the most violently gentle way possible. Because, in case you weren’t aware, your feet have accumulated layers upon layers of dead skin. By 22 you’ve basically generated your very own DIY leather-soled footwear. 
 
Ingenious? Yes. Sexy? Not in the slightest. Hard, calloused feet that are the audible equivalents to tap shoes as you walk barefoot on hardwood floor are immediate boner killers. Just so everybody knows the baby-voiced “Can you carry me?” to Dude when needing to travel from living to bedroom isn’t me being a stupid slut brat, it’s simply a ruse to conceal my cripplingly embarrassing and loud foot callouses -- a clever one at that. (I find socks, especially the fluffy variety, to be far too confining.)
 
So the packaging contains one special-moment set of Baby Foot booties. They’re plastic pouches, each containing a very wet, thin pad loaded with the AHA solution. The instructions say to wash your feet before use, which I interpreted as, “stand on them in the shower, and assume that the soap will make contact” before securing the oversized booties using adhesive strips to tighten around your ankles. 
 
Now, the label says that you can walk around wearing the booties but I have to disagree based on personal experience. It’s slippery and NOT cool to walk down a marble staircase in. Instead, chill for an hour watching Netflix (Might I recommend anything besides Dog Pound? Not the adopted puppy feel-gooder I was expecting!), or wear them inside of your least favorite pair of shoes. (But I mean, really, you can’t chill off your feet for one hour? Who are you, somebody with lots of friends who invite you places?)
 
After you’re done, rinse away the fruit acid gel and go about your normal life routine. You’ll stare down at your feet and chuckle smugly to yourself like, “Oh you foolish broad! Always falling for these snake oils and their gobbledygook, wasting all your greenbacks and for what? A bunch of bupkis, that’s what!”
 
Then about four days later you’ll notice something like this:
 
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The first indication that Baby Foot is doing its thing.

And you’ll innocently try to peel the loose flake of skin, only to find that it comes off all too easily, and then you’ll peel off a little more. 
 
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I had to!

And you’ll keep peeling, having flashbacks to your Freshman English Lit course “It sticks horribly and the pattern just enjoys it!” You’ll lock yourself in your room peeling and peeling, each new flake of separated dead skin just shrieking with derision! 
 
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This is so supremely satisfying.

Then you’ll remember you’re not a 19th Century female protagonist suffering from postpartum depression, mostly thanks to a fart noise from Eugene because Bob’s Burgers is on. And there’s the fact that you have no children, life is pretty okay, and the world is improving from that little androcentrism problem, except for the fact that you’re peeling sheets of dead skin from your feet because apparently dudes go limp for crusty feet. 
 
Regardless of the implications, I’m obsessed. Sure, it might (definitely) help indulge my dermatillomania, but girls just wanna have fun, am I right people? Not to poke fun, as I really can’t keep my germy little fingers off of any scab, bump, or zit, so to be able to peel away layers of dead skin to reveal fresh pink flesh beneath is so very elating. 
 
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And you get to do it twice!

 
My feet continued to peel for another week and a half at least. I was surprised to see that it took care of every nook and cranny -- I was peeling skin from between my toes and around every nail, all the way to the tops of my feet, which were the last to go. 
 
The only drawback is that I couldn’t wear sandals while the shedding was taking place because...ew. But I did manage to save an envelope of skin flakes which I plan on making an art project out of, or at least sending to a friend or family member with the note, “Pieces of me –Annie.” That’s cute that you think I’m kidding about both of those scenarios. 
 
Today my feet feel softer than ever, my toes no longer have hard edges, and I’ve traded my DIY nature shoes for an envelope of dead skin flakes and sexier games of footsies. 
 
Cunt punt. Saggy rotting ball sack. Dead foot skin love letters. All things that are too hot for Vain