I’m 33. I don’t hide that: it’s in the sidebar. I have a few deeper lines on my face, I have a few saggier bits, I don’t fit a size 6 anymore and I probably have a few grey hairs hiding under the layers of bottled colours. I, despite my best intentions sometime, have grown up a little.
No one told my pores that, though.
My sister, the aesthetician, is sending me some new fangled potions for adult acne stuff. Just the phrase is obnoxious: adult acne. That really god awful marketing. While I despise the commercial that discusses epidermal disorganisation [quick! somebody organise the epidermis! shorter work days! better pay!], something other than adult acne is called for.
Ambitious oil glands.
Skin on overtime.
That rosy, youthful glow.
Sadly, I have to accept products for adult acne. And flaky skin [it may be the wet, west coast, but it’s still winter!]. And aging skin, as my kind sister keeps reminding me. And, if the Magpie continues to pinch my cheeks so fiercely, as she is so fond of doing, sagging skin, too.
And I shall become a droopy, dry and pimply version of my former self….. must take more photos now, while I can.