I am fourteen. My skin has erupted in acne and oil. I use five harsh products daily, each promising to rid my face of the pox.
I am sixteen. Shaving my head has largely resolved my most immediate acne problems. I gladly stop using the harsh cleansers.
I am twenty-two. Pregnancy hormones are worse than puberty when it comes to my face. I attack my skin, poking, picking and prodding.
I am thirty. Wrinkles have started to show up, and the scarring from my years of skin picking is evident.
I am thirty-two. I treat my skin with love and care. I wash it with gentle cleansers, give it moisture, pamper it with scented oils, and learn the fine art of facial massage. My skin is clearer than ever.