Brown, Jon Brow
3rd January 2009, 14:39
Zits, pimples, boils- whatever they are, like most teenagers I hate getting spots. Most of us know the feeling of looking into the mirror and being greeted by the awful sight of a red, gooey and ugly blemish.
My spot cycle been as regular as a menstrual cycle for around two years now. I seem to get a new spot every month. This spot usually lasts for a month too, until the new one arrives and replaces it. It never really bothered me, I was just fortunate that I didn’t get terrible acne.
However, around September time last year my spot cycle changed. I became far more regular. I was getting a new spot every few days. It was terrible! Was I pregnant? Did I have cancer? Had I reached puberty later than most? All these questions ran through my head.
The final straw came when I looked in the mirror one morning and I had a red mountain range on my face. I’m pretty sure that these spots could have been seen from the International Space station. Astronomers from far away planets had already started to give my individual spots names. I’m also pretty sure that the BBC news also mistook the bursting of one of these volcano-sized spots as an eruption of Mount Etna.
Something had to change. This change began with Clearasil. The adverts had convinced me that after applying this to your face when you wash, your spots would immediately disappear. I was wrong. It did nothing. If anything it just spread the mountai…., I mean spots, more around my face.
Facial products had failed me. So for round two of ‘the battle of Jon’s face’ I decided to use traditional soap and water. This succeeded in halting the expansion of the mountain range, but I wasn’t satisfied. I needed to make the slimy buggers retreat back into my face. So for part two of the operation I got myself some facewash.
Most of us know that high street shops and males do not go well. In the same way that old people and technology don’t mix, and women and maps don’t get along. So as you can imagine, the prospect of going to the ‘meterosexual’ section of Boots was quite a traumatic experience. But I was determined to succeed in my quest. I pulled a pair of women’s tights over my head to avoid being recognised and swiftly came out of the shop with some Nivea for Men Facewash.
After a few days of use my face became clearer. It was working. I was delighted and thought to my self ‘if I wash my face five times a day I will defeat this enemy forever’. This turned out to be a catastrophic error. The next day I woke up and saw that the pillow in my bed looked a giant flapjack. I looked into the mirror. I didn’t have any spots, but my skin looked like the surface of the moon and was as dry as a menopausal woman’s you know what. My over eagerness to get rid of the spots had dried out my skin. It was a crushing defeat.
After a few days of hiding from the world I decided to launch my final counter strike. I had to face the high street shops once again. This time to buy the most ‘meterosexual’ of all the ‘meterosexual’ products. Moisturiser.
Now the biggest difficulty of this mission was not the purchasing of the product, but returning home with it. If my parents saw that I had bought Moisturiser then I would inevitable get the ‘Gay’ talk from them. Basically they’d tell me that they would love me whatever my sexuality may me. Being quite heterosexual the thought of this was not very appealing. Luckily for me though, my parents have an en-suite bathroom next to their bedroom. This means that I have the luxury of having sole use of the main bathroom. They will never no my secret.
So, did the moisturiser work? Well it succeeded in softening my skin again. But under the sandy, dry, desert-like layer I found that a few small spots were still there. Not quite a mountain range anymore. I suppose this is a satisfactory result. The only downside is that I now struggle to open the bathroom door. This is due to the number of face products that I have to apply every day. I think I need a bigger bathroom for all of them!
My spot cycle been as regular as a menstrual cycle for around two years now. I seem to get a new spot every month. This spot usually lasts for a month too, until the new one arrives and replaces it. It never really bothered me, I was just fortunate that I didn’t get terrible acne.
However, around September time last year my spot cycle changed. I became far more regular. I was getting a new spot every few days. It was terrible! Was I pregnant? Did I have cancer? Had I reached puberty later than most? All these questions ran through my head.
The final straw came when I looked in the mirror one morning and I had a red mountain range on my face. I’m pretty sure that these spots could have been seen from the International Space station. Astronomers from far away planets had already started to give my individual spots names. I’m also pretty sure that the BBC news also mistook the bursting of one of these volcano-sized spots as an eruption of Mount Etna.
Something had to change. This change began with Clearasil. The adverts had convinced me that after applying this to your face when you wash, your spots would immediately disappear. I was wrong. It did nothing. If anything it just spread the mountai…., I mean spots, more around my face.
Facial products had failed me. So for round two of ‘the battle of Jon’s face’ I decided to use traditional soap and water. This succeeded in halting the expansion of the mountain range, but I wasn’t satisfied. I needed to make the slimy buggers retreat back into my face. So for part two of the operation I got myself some facewash.
Most of us know that high street shops and males do not go well. In the same way that old people and technology don’t mix, and women and maps don’t get along. So as you can imagine, the prospect of going to the ‘meterosexual’ section of Boots was quite a traumatic experience. But I was determined to succeed in my quest. I pulled a pair of women’s tights over my head to avoid being recognised and swiftly came out of the shop with some Nivea for Men Facewash.
After a few days of use my face became clearer. It was working. I was delighted and thought to my self ‘if I wash my face five times a day I will defeat this enemy forever’. This turned out to be a catastrophic error. The next day I woke up and saw that the pillow in my bed looked a giant flapjack. I looked into the mirror. I didn’t have any spots, but my skin looked like the surface of the moon and was as dry as a menopausal woman’s you know what. My over eagerness to get rid of the spots had dried out my skin. It was a crushing defeat.
After a few days of hiding from the world I decided to launch my final counter strike. I had to face the high street shops once again. This time to buy the most ‘meterosexual’ of all the ‘meterosexual’ products. Moisturiser.
Now the biggest difficulty of this mission was not the purchasing of the product, but returning home with it. If my parents saw that I had bought Moisturiser then I would inevitable get the ‘Gay’ talk from them. Basically they’d tell me that they would love me whatever my sexuality may me. Being quite heterosexual the thought of this was not very appealing. Luckily for me though, my parents have an en-suite bathroom next to their bedroom. This means that I have the luxury of having sole use of the main bathroom. They will never no my secret.
So, did the moisturiser work? Well it succeeded in softening my skin again. But under the sandy, dry, desert-like layer I found that a few small spots were still there. Not quite a mountain range anymore. I suppose this is a satisfactory result. The only downside is that I now struggle to open the bathroom door. This is due to the number of face products that I have to apply every day. I think I need a bigger bathroom for all of them!