This Newsletter Brought To You By: Massive Zits, Terrifying Facials, & The Clothes You Wear When You're Feeling Bad About Yourself
I came up with the idea — both for this story and for this newsletter — while in immense pain. I was getting something called a DMK Enzyme Facial. Have you heard of this? I don’t actually know how it works from a scientific standpoint, but basically, they paint a bunch of layers of enzymes or something (??) on your face, let them tighten until your skin is so warped that you look like an elderly person (seriously, Google it!), and then take it all off and charge you $200. Apparently, Drew Barrymore does it, which is something I reminded myself of numerous times as the enzyme mask tightened around my hairline, making me feel the need to itch it, which I couldn’t really do because the stuff was also all over my chest inhibiting my range of motion, and giving me the acute sensation that my skin was burning off. I had also consumed a weed gummy before this whole experience, so this fun thought briefly crossed my mind: What if my skin, like, actually is burning off and I’m just too stoned/shy/awkward to go get my facialist and tell her? Wouldn’t that be a horrible way to go? Imagine the headlines! So yeah, weed and minorly invasive beauty treatments — a truly winning fucking combo!
(Also, for anyone who is about to scream COVID at me, hear this: I went to get my teeth cleaned last week because it’s been over a year and I’m trying to be a More Responsible Person about that stuff because last time I went I had a shitload of cavities, and figured if I could be okay with a dentist and his assistant shoving their hands into my mouth in an honestly super questionable environment (why are dental offices always so grimy-seeming?) then I could be okay with seeing a facialist in her very sterile and soothing home office. Also, I got a MASSIVE zit on my chin that’s left me in a complete panic spiral for over a week… much more on that later.)
Anyway, as I lay on the table, skin tightening by the second, fearing my face may be disintegrating, I thought to myself: I should really start a newsletter. That way, I’ll have one more thing to do, and if I fail to do it, I’ll have one more thing to berate myself about while attempting to, you know, fall asleep at night, or drown my sorrows with spiked seltzer! Healthy way to approach my career, no? The other thing I was thinking about, though, is how utterly uninspired I’ve been with regards to getting dressed lately. While I use my weekend trips to Club Prospect Park (the hottest outdoor club in NYC) to show off new Rent the Runway acquisitions, my weekday style has mostly revolved around t-shirts, leggings, and the occasional comfy dress since March. It’s mostly fine; I’ve used the opportunity to invest in some much-needed athleisure that isn’t old, shrunken Juicy Couture sweatpants. However, since the arrival of the aforementioned zit, things have been notably bad. I’ve worn the same pair of black Puma shorts every day this week with some variation of black t-shirt, because every time I look into my closet and consider putting on something a little more inspiring for my big day of sitting at a desk mere inches from the place where I slept, I remember that I have a huge hydrocolloid sticker covering a huge zit smack in the middle of my fucking face. And so, I wear black once again. I guess I am in mourning.
I am also, it must be said, very lucky that after years of horrible cystic acne that I felt powerless to control, I discovered a miracle drug called Spironolactone which means I very rarely get zits anymore. (Anyone who tells you drugs can’t solve your problems is a liar and wants you to fail.) This is probably why I am being such a giant baby about one zit, albeit a very large and long-lasting one. I am also very lucky that I discovered Spiro prior to 2020, not only because I can’t imagine dealing with the anxiety of regular breakouts on top of… uh, everything else going on in the world… but also because I really can’t imagine slathering myself with makeup every day to call into fucking Zoom meetings. Nor can I fathom wearing foundation under a facemask, which I am certain is the primary reason Donald Trump is so resistant to them. Seriously, somewhere in the White House there is a gross little cabinet full of Covergirl in whatever the most repellant orange shade they make is. Think about that for a second. No wait, don’t, it’s too ghastly.
During the few years I was really struggling with my skin, I always hated having to dress up on a particularly bad skin day. I felt I couldn’t do a beautiful dress justice when my face was a red, crusty mess. Sometimes, I wouldn’t even let myself listen to music on the way to work if my skin was bad, because I didn’t want to taint a perfectly good song with how ugly I felt. This is, I realize, really sad, and I hate that it’s the kind of thing that people, myself included, are only really comfortable talking about in past tense, because for anyone who is going through it, that doesn’t offer much comfort. Normalize talking about shit while it’s happening, not two years after when you can laugh and shrug it off in the inaugural post of a Substack newsletter.
Reflecting on this made me realize that I’ve let other things I’m self-conscious about — whether it’s my weight or just feeling like my hair looks bad on a given day — influence how I dress. And then it made me wonder, all Carrie Bradshaw-style: do other people do this too? How much do we let how we feel about our physical shells affect what we put on those shells? I think probably a lot, probably more than we individually realize. For me, when I want to hide, I turn to the comfort and anonymity of an all-black ensemble. I opt for t-shirts and big baggy sweaters, I think because I want to telegraph to the world that I’m not an idiot: I know I look like shit! I know I have a huge, honking zit on my face, or whatever the perceived problem is, and I refuse to operate under the pretense that anything can distract from that! (Nevermind, of course, that in reality, everybody is probably too wrapped up in their own self-conscious bullshit to give a fuck what I look like; internalizing that is easier said than done.) I’d be curious to know what other people wear when they’re feeling disappear-y, though. I imagine that for some, it’s the total opposite, that they’d rather be loud with their clothes to drown out whatever it is they’re feeling bad about.
And there’s also a flip side to all this: For those of us who quite literally wear our emotions on our sleeves, when we feel really good about ourselves, we go all out. My ultimate look-at-me outfit is probably clashing patterns — right before COVID, I bought some insane blue zebra print boots that I’ve barely gotten to wear, and I can’t wait to mix them with florals — colorful eyeshadow, big hair, and something sparkly or shiny. Is there any better feeling in the world than strutting down the street in a crazy outfit you fucking love, feeling hot, blasting music, going wherever you’re going? I don’t miss schlepping to the office every day, but I sure do miss stomping around the city in this manner. When all this is over, I plan to dress up every day. Even if I have acne! Well, maybe. I don’t know. We’ll see. Don’t hold me to that, okay? The world is a strange and twisted place right now, and it doesn’t seem like a great time to write sartorial checks I can’t cash.
Speaking of which, if you’ve made it this far, know that your patience for my unedited ramblings is greatly appreciated. Let’s see how long I can keep this newsletter thing going, shall we? I tend to have a short attention span for unpaid labor… but also an inordinate amount of what feel like ~must-share thoughts~ on the subject of fashion and, uh, my own feelings, so we’ll just have to see which one wins out.
100% feel the disappear-y feels
I’ll gladly have patience for your well written musings as I sit in bed, feeling disappear-y and with a large zit on my chin from maskne (mask acne)