I remember my first foray into the beauty world. I was 13, and my mom took me to the mall to get “skin typed” at the Clinique counter. There I was, in my awkward, slightly pimply, teenage angst, learning about all the failings of my face from a woman in a white lab coat. I found out I had combination skin (gasp!), slightly prone to breakouts (agony!). Apparently, this was cause for great consternation, judging from the concern exhibited by my beauty-queen mother and the SA as they discussed my prescribed skin care regimen in hushed voices. Finally, they laid it on me: I was to commit to daily scrubbing with a large, half-moon, yellow bar of soap, followed by “exfoliation” via Clarifying Lotion 2, capped off with moisturization (must prevent the wrinkles!) with the ever-ubiquitous Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion. Feeling overwhelmed and slightly numb, I nodded my agreement, Mom handed over her credit card, and a deal with the devil was made.
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