I basically called my mom for help. Except when I say mom, I mean an esthetician.
My skin was the best when I limited myself to my pathetic little 8x magnifying mirror. You might as well be looking at yourself through a thick fog, drunk, wearing nerd perve glasses. You’ll be beautiful–-acceptable, at least--always.
I’d never pick at my skin or analyze my eyebrows, hence the uni. And I didn’t really ever think about my mustache; it doesn’t really exist in anything less than 15x magnification.
But because I’m totally into feeling miserable, I bought a 30x-er at some point last year. Self-loathing is the new flower crown for the youngest and hippest. Waking up puffy after a 4am Whataburger run and trying to shimmy into anything American Apparel will produce the same results as the magnifying mirror. Pick your poison, ugly!
I get that it’s not even a real mustache. It’s some weak white fuzz that I couldn’t even convince the laser technician doing my underarms--who I thought was my FRIEND--to zap a lil bit. “The hairs need to be dark,” she shrugged. Um, that’s discrimination.
So I recently got some facial fuzz remover from a rather high-end skincare brand that shall not be named because I still want them to send me free stuff, and thought I’d try it out. I’d used something similar before--which we’ll get to in a minute--and figured this well-reputed fancyish-bitch brand’s cream would work even better.
Enter: chemical burns. I guess I misstepped when I didn’t do the skin patch test 24 hours prior to smearing it onto the middle of my face, but honestly, who the hell does that? I’m just a 20-something girl on the go, tryin’a hustle my way around the big city, USA. I don’t have time to patch-test cosmetics. When I need my mustache gone, I need it gone, you know?
After nine minutes, because stuff didn’t melt my stache after five (and yes, I do time this kind of thing to the second), I went in to wipe it away. And holy sh%$ it burned. I could feel the top layer of my skin literally sizzle away like I was in a Hollywood horror torture movie! And the skin that wasn’t bubbling away into an open wound turned an angry-looking red.
My face, you guys, THIS WAS MY FACE. Nobody actually believes my writing got me this job, right? I honestly don’t know what the future will bring at this point. I’m sitting here with rough blister scabs covering my upper lip, trying to convince the internet that it should take beauty advice from me.
Here’s a solid piece of advice: Olay’s Smooth Finish Facial Hair Removal Duo. I mean, it’s a product, and my advice is to use it. It’s the one that I had been using before, by recommendation of Jenny over on xoJane, around the same time that I upped my magnification strength to 30.
Stuff works beautifully with zero irritation, thanks to what I’m assuming is the first layer of skin-protecting balm that you swipe on before using the chemical cream sludge to melt your hair off. So, you know, no open sores!
I’m guessing I’ll just have to Neosporin it for the next few nights, write only hair and nail stories for the rest of the week, and hope for the best? Tips?