Sit down, guys. Please take a chair. There's something I need to tell you.
It started off so innocently. I was 17 on a sleepover and someone who I called a friend, someone I trusted offered me some of hers. "Sure," I said, naive to the dark world of "masking" I had just opened myself up to.
I thought it was just a bit of fun. After school, with friend, we'd all gather at someone's place and mask up. I became emboldened by my refreshed appreence, the glowing skin and tightened pores. I felt like I could take on anything with my clear complexion and minimal blackheads.
Soon, I couldn't go a week without using a mask. I started to dabble in different kinds of masks. Masques, clay, sheet and seaweed. I tried them all. And I loved it.
Mum, please don't cry. Try this foot mask, it'll really settle your nerves. What? Oh right, sorry.
I started masking alone. After school, you'll find me in the bathroom secretly slathering Dead Sea mud hairline to collarbone. Weekends became a heady blur of dissolved aspirin and honey mixes and warm compresses. My complexion glowed like a Clefairy exposed to a Moon Stone, but I knew skin this good couldn't last forever. A day without my mask hit only made me paranoid of the blackheads and imperfections that teased from beneath the surface of my derma.
On the eve of my 20th year, I awoke dressed only in a man's stubby shorts and two-thirds of a scuba set, the last week having passed by in a daze of torn sample packets and toning lotions. A half-dissolved bath bomb lingered by my arm and mangled product tubes littered the carpet, fallen heroes in the war against uneven and blemished skin tone. I had hit my rock-bottom.
Over-enthusiastic mask use had made my skin itchy and dry and I swore off them and their ilk until early this year, when their sweet siren songs of refreshed faces encouraged me to treat yo self.
It started off so innocently. I was 17 on a sleepover and someone who I called a friend, someone I trusted offered me some of hers. "Sure," I said, naive to the dark world of "masking" I had just opened myself up to.
I thought it was just a bit of fun. After school, with friend, we'd all gather at someone's place and mask up. I became emboldened by my refreshed appreence, the glowing skin and tightened pores. I felt like I could take on anything with my clear complexion and minimal blackheads.
Soon, I couldn't go a week without using a mask. I started to dabble in different kinds of masks. Masques, clay, sheet and seaweed. I tried them all. And I loved it.
Mum, please don't cry. Try this foot mask, it'll really settle your nerves. What? Oh right, sorry.
I started masking alone. After school, you'll find me in the bathroom secretly slathering Dead Sea mud hairline to collarbone. Weekends became a heady blur of dissolved aspirin and honey mixes and warm compresses. My complexion glowed like a Clefairy exposed to a Moon Stone, but I knew skin this good couldn't last forever. A day without my mask hit only made me paranoid of the blackheads and imperfections that teased from beneath the surface of my derma.
On the eve of my 20th year, I awoke dressed only in a man's stubby shorts and two-thirds of a scuba set, the last week having passed by in a daze of torn sample packets and toning lotions. A half-dissolved bath bomb lingered by my arm and mangled product tubes littered the carpet, fallen heroes in the war against uneven and blemished skin tone. I had hit my rock-bottom.
Over-enthusiastic mask use had made my skin itchy and dry and I swore off them and their ilk until early this year, when their sweet siren songs of refreshed faces encouraged me to treat yo self.
