It isn’t quite proper to be proud of something you did not actually do. I have a frighteningly good complexion and, since before April this year, I didn’t have a skincare routine worth a damn, I don’t think I can take credit for it. However, since April, I have been doing something that more closely approximates the term, even if it is a bit haphazard. I feel that has probably been necessary, given that I have been wearing makeup, and one should – as a minimum – take it off at night.
Over the last six months, I have always managed to take the makeup off at night, even if only with a facial wipe. It has often developed into more than just that. Then we come to this weekend. I went to the pub on Friday. A number of hours later (I’m slightly hazy on how many), I came home and went to bed without removing the makeup. Saturday came and went with some very gentle pottering about, as my hangover was not merciful. Today, I have on my forehead one of those throbbing pustules of a spot that hurts to the touch.
Coincidence or cautionary tale? You decide.
So I am now completely convinced of the need for the removal of makeup every night, even when rip-roaringly drunk. If just one instance of failing this step can occasion such a prompt comeuppance with my sickeningly healthy genetic heritage, just imagine the damage it can wreak on a more temperamental complexion!