The Church of Good Skin

It’s not polite to stare - but I do. Whether it’s through a screen or IRL, I will look at a radiant woman’s face and think “wow if I looked like that my life would be better”. I don’t so much think that thought as I feel that thought, and I gaze for too long at this person until they suddenly notice me, gawking at them, so I pretend to be lost on the subway and focus too intently on whatever ad is overhead (Why is it always The Spanish Centre ads on the TTC???).

So yes, I’m devout to the dermis faith. I’m a member of the Revered Church of Good Skin and my scripture is Skincare Tok.

TikTok is great and terrifying at the same time. I love that so much bitesized information is available, but more importantly, the bitesized laughter it elicits from me is always welcome. But I do hate that five hours can go by without me noticing. Anyway, the saints’ whose altars I frequent, always have an effortless glow - hence why I can’t look away.

It always starts off very innocent after I’ve been fed my daily dose of adorable cat videos. I find myself watching and liking a video that very gently but firmly communicates a tip or a misconception about skincare routines. Suddenly, the algorithm is like “Ah, got it, you hate having pores. HERE YOU GO!” and it proceeds to feed me more and more until I am convinced that if I don’t double cleanse my face at night, my skin will decompose the next day; or that if I dare step outside one minute without sunscreen, I will burn like a vampire accidentally caught in the morning light, or worse - get a wrinkle.

This particular sect of Tiktok leaves me feeling more knowledgeable but also wondering how does one fact-check on the internet these days??? And against my better judgement, it propels me to follow these stranger’s commandments, sparking an intense online shopping frenzy to furiously find these holy grails. The need is immediate, desperate and urgent. If I don’t find and purchase what that beautiful, Argentinian, redhead told me cleared her acne, I will somehow be responsible for my whole family’s unexplained death.

When the product arrives at my door, or I have successfully found it in a store (after looking around for half an hour on my own because I’m determined to be independent and a person who “can find things” - but then giving up and sheepishly asking for assistance) and I try said product as instructed by the TikTok goddesses I feel…nothing. As many of them will say, it will take time to see the results. But it’s not even my chronic impatience that is at play because if it was frustration or disappointment, then at least I would be feeling something. It’s just this numbness as I stare in the mirror and think “nothing is going to change this”. Unless, of course, I can genuinely consider plastic surgery, which depending on the day, I’m either indifferent, passionately against, or passionately “you do you, girl” about it. Point is: my tithings are never enough.

Mona Awad captured this nagging feeling in her novel Rouge: “I stare and stare at my own wretched reflection. So close I once was. The almost but not quite. The grasping and the disappointment. All etched in my face.”

This is a feeling that, as an almost-thirty-two-year-old, I wish I did not continue to experience. I have felt this since I was a child, brainwashed with too many animated fairy tales with thin, white, princesses, and movies where a makeover (consisting of taking off glasses) makes the lead “hot” and therefore better (the end).

I think the closest I have ever felt to feeling actually “beautiful” must’ve been from ages 3-to 6. Basically before I got glasses but right after my brain developed the ability to have any sort of lasting memory or conscious thoughts. After the glasses I also had to get braces and so much tooth surgery because my parents created mutants with horrible eyesight and terrible teeth. As the youngest, I received the worst genetic material. I have been told by many dentists many times that my mouth is too small for my teeth and that they’ve never seen anything like it (so you think I’m skinny!).

But medical marvels aside! I used to gape longingly at the prettiest girl in my class (1. Because I had a massive crush on her but I would have no way of processing or naming those feelings until I was in my late 20’s and 2. Because “pretty” often equals “likeable” and I wanted to be liked), just dreaming of the day I would also find out my grandmother was the queen to some unknown European country and I would NEED to get a makeover to prove I was a suitable heir to the throne (a very realistic fantasy featuring a monarchy where the youngest girl is, for some reason, next in line and not her two older brothers) and then finally I would be able to look at myself in the mirror and like what I saw.

Wow that sounds really sad when I write it all out. I swear I do like myself (maybe?) but I guess what I’m saying is that I can’t quite shake this “pretty morality” that creeps up (usually right before I get my period or after I’ve received a rejection letter), where I believe that if I just looked like that beautiful woman on the subway, then I would be a better person with a better life. But what exactly is a better person or a better life?

There are so many factors I can blame for believing in this dogma (my menstrual cycle and capitalism being my favourite ones). Because I know intellectually it’s in the Church of Good Skin’s best interest to keep me feeling like shit so I continue to make monetary contributions to them in exchange for “glass skin”. But intellectually knowing this doesn’t change the fact that I feel shameful when a pimple appears, yet again, on my chin, and that if I just found the right vitamin C serum I would finally experience self-love. And how am I supposed to solve a crisis of faith when I still don’t know how to properly cook salmon???

So instead I get a chemical peel to fix my melasma, and descend further down the pit of self loathing and inching closer and closer to starting a “morning shed” routine, until finally I innocently share all of this with my friend C, who, bless her, begins to ask questions. And it is through this confession and through hearing these illogical beliefs repeated back to me that I realize…I have mistakenly placed my faith in a cult.

BIG GASP! And like any true crime documentary about cults tells us, there is always a charismatic and dangerous leader behind it all. So who is it?? My therapist would probably ask “Who’s saying all this stuff to you?” and I would answer that it’s this bitch called Madison that lives in my head rent free (“my inner saboteur” as RuPaul would say). Madison first appeared in my brain when I got glasses and she fully moved in when I got braces. Madison is the cult leader! And, inspired by C, I begin to ask Madison questions. I ask her: “Why does this matter?” and I tell her “Of course you have perfect skin because you’re a figment of my imagination!”.

Madison has no rebuttal because she is in fact a false god. There are some good days and some bad days. Sometimes I can face her and sometimes I can’t. But ultimately, I must remember: what makes me a good person is not if my skin looks smoother than butter, but whether or not I think Rory Gilmore is selfish.