Conquering Pimples in Paris

Conquering Pimples in Paris

It’s 12.05 A.M.  I’m doing Wordle.  My phone rings, and it’s Hillary calling from Paris.  She’s sobbing.  “I’m totally broken out.”  Not a life-or-death problem, but still, Hillary is like a niece to me.  She’s 38 and on her honeymoon.  I’d seen her at her bachelorette weekend when I did a skincare workshop for her wedding party.  She was stressed, but her skin was finally perfect after a recent bout of blemishes, (which I take full credit for), and it was perfect for her big day in Palm Springs. 

Between the bone-dry desert in May and gritty Paris, her skin had freaked.  “Deep calming breaths,” I told her.  “They’re going to explode,” she said.  “No, they’re not.  Just listen.  You’ve got your emergency kit.  Break it out.  Wash your face.  Get your Calm Mist and give it a spray.  Let the azelaic acid do its thing.  Then hit each one of those zits with your Blemish Ball.  Push the ball down on them for a sec and do it again.  Those jackasses hate salicylic acid. Then get your Restore+Repair Oil and push a few drops onto your face.  Remember I told you that Tamanu Oil cures everything nasty?”  She whimpered, “Yes.  Green Gold.” 

“What do you do next?”  “The Deep Refining Cream?”  “Because why?”  “Because pimples don’t like retinol?”  “Yes, Grasshopper.  As soon as the zits have retreated, go back to your regular Artisanal Travel Kit I gave you. And wear a hat, capiche?”  She promised she would.  “And calm the heck down. You’ve got this.”  We hung up. I put my phone on airplane mode, put on the Dachshund pajamas Evelyn had given me for my birthday and finished Wordle in two.  Everyone once in a while the Universe throws you a bone.
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