The Seven Cream Regime
In my late forties, I have finally discovered the joys of pampering my skin and hair. The beauty secrets most girls learn from their mothers, sisters or friends in their pre-teen years completely passed me by. No sisters, for one. Two, hung out with guys mainly. Three, mom tried but gave up. These are habits learnt early or not at all.
Actually, I do have a couple of memories of skin and hair care, just not normal ones. The winters used to be cold and dry in my hometown. My grandmother would slather me with fresh cream off the top of the boiled milk before my bath. On my birthday, crushed red rose petals were added to the cream. As she applied the cream, I would lick it off my face. I loved the taste of the cream. Grandmom would scold. I would lick away. Yum.
My mom let my hair grow all the way down to my waist as a child. It would be coconut oiled, like a good Malayali, plaited and then rolled up into two bundles, à la Princess Leia. One day, my good friend decided in Art Class that he’d much rather use his scissors on one of those bundles than on his craft project. The hair was tightly bundled so the damage only became apparent when I reached home and the plaits came undone. I had hair to my waist on one side and hair barely covering my ears on the other. Of course, it had to be chopped off but it grew back. The day my tenth standard board exams were done, I had it cut off to a shaggy shoulder length. It was a symbolic break from childhood. My dad couldn’t bear to look at me for three days. He mourned the loss of my long hair for far longer than I considered necessary. I never grew my hair long again. It was never an important part of me or my self image anyway. If I could shave my head without consequences, I’d do it today. Just to see the shape of my skull. What? You mean everyone doesn’t yearn to see the bumps and contours on their heads? So, yeah, not normal.
But really, that was it. I have never threaded my eyebrows. Ever. Facials? What’s that? Gave up colouring my hair ten years ago so I resemble Cruella De Vil these days. And so, I went merrily on until middle age without bothering at all with skin care.
I spent most of my life taking two things for granted: clear skin and a skinny body. No pimples ever. I literally had no idea that anti-pimple creams and medications are a multi-billion dollar industry worldwide. The same goes for weight. I stayed a steady forty eight kilos till my first pregnancy, went up to fifty two kilos with the second and then hung there forever. But you know, karma is a bitch. Suddenly I was forty five, greying (which didn’t bother me), seventy kilos and with the worst breakout of acne ever.
I’ve spent the last three years in foodie hell. Diets come and go, even the weight comes and goes but the cravings never go away. Croissants. Cake. Bacon. Butter. Ghee. Mithai. No. Stop. This is not getting us anywhere. Back to topic.
Anyway, the weight went down, the health issues improved but those pimples! Fair skin tends to be a perfect backdrop for the bright red suckers, especially once they develop the white tip. Aarghh. And of course, just like in the movies, one will bloom on the tip of my nose or the middle of my cheek just on the day I have that rare evening out planned. I’m not vain but it’s always a shock to see these aliens blips on a hitherto smooth surface.
And so the Seven Cream Regime. Five at night, two in the morning. I kid you not. This is a recent and extreme addiction. Apparently, I’m the skincare industry’s gullible poster child. I try to keep them ayurvedic or natural mainly to assuage my environmentally awakening conscience.
Under eye cream. Face cream. Hand cream. Foot cream. Body lotion. My better half complains that the bedroom smells like a fruit basket. I think the implication is that I might be the basket case.
There’s tea tree oil for the emerging pimple. There’s vile smelling bringadi hair oil for the once a week head massage. Aloe Vera face gel and shampoo and conditioner. Argan oil for after shampoo application. Ubtans and face masks. Manuka honey sunscreen. Oh dear, this is embarrassing. But full disclosure is best.
My point being, deprivation in childhood may lead to excesses in later years though mine is possibly an extreme case. Not quite deprivation, just happy and healthy ignorance of beauty treatments. When my younger son was a baby, he would comfort himself by touching my cheek or my hair. He still does that sometimes. I figure if this arsenal of products keeps my skin and hair the way they were when he was a baby, that’s good enough reason to keep the natural beauty companies laughing all the way to the bank.