The world is divided into two types of people: those who always have clear skin and those who suffered from acne as a teenager.
The former will never know what it feels like to stay locked in their room because their skin is so pitted and angry that they cannot face anyone’s pity or displeasure.
Young men can sometimes boast with charisma. Let’s face it, youthful acne never stopped Gordon Ramsay. But for young women, judged so ruthlessly on their appearance, it can be debilitating to the point of hopelessness.
I’ve been that girl, with a face so livid from poorly squeezed stitches that I felt like no guy would ever kiss me, much less date me. How could anyone love me when I had pimples on my back and chest and a large headless lump that reappeared, again and again, in the soft skin of my cleavage?
At age 16, I would stand for hours in front of the mirror cabinet over the bathroom sink, trying to determine if there was a ripe spot to burst.
The worst stain of my life was the boil that appeared above my nose on the morning of my first adult party in London in 1985, when I was 17.
A beautiful school friend had been asked to go as a medical student’s date to a medical school Christmas dance in London. She agreed to go if I could also attend, as a guest of her single friend. I located a fitted black 1950s cocktail dress and plans were going well… until Vesuvius erupted.
My date’s disappointment was evident the moment he saw me. And who can blame him? I wasn’t surprised when he disappeared about an hour into the night with an attractive nursing student, leaving me to fend for myself.
I have never felt so alone or so unattractive, before or since.
You might think that in the era of modern dermatology, “pizza face” (as we vilely called acne in the 1980s) and the agony that accompanies it have disappeared. But new global rankings for acne diagnosis show the UK is ranked number eight globally out of 204 nations; 14 percent of British teenagers suffer from it.
Both of my children (now 16 and 20) have suffered from mild acne. But my children’s discomfort is nothing compared to that of one of my nieces who despairs every time spots appear, despite her obvious beauty.
I feel sad about my youth: all that time wasted in misery and applying layers of makeup when a good dermatologist could have helped me sooner.
At age 16, I would stand for hours in front of the mirrored cabinet over the bathroom sink, trying to determine if a spot was ready to pop, which might lead to a brief, cathartic “gotcha!” – but generally aggravating my skin until it provokes greater rebellion.
I tried every lotion available: Clearasil, Dettol, TCP and even bath bleach, but nothing worked. In fact, the bleach and Dettol were acts of self-sabotage, leaving ugly scabs and some scars that persist to this day. A part of me wanted to burn my skin because it was rebelling against me.
Forty years later I can see that genetics, hormones and diet were the drivers, not “bacteria” as I believed, much to my deep shame. What I remember most is how my blotchy skin set me apart from my closest friends. For them, makeup was more of a choice than a necessity. I would say I spent about 25 years of my life looking for the best foundations for fair skin with a touch of olive yellow.
I got good at covering the mess on my face, but as the nights wore on, the spots would appear and I would be filled with horror at the thought of any attractive man seeing me.
A date I went on when I was 18 with a now famous actor had to be abandoned at the ‘would you like to go up for a drink?’ scenario, because I was so ashamed of my real, raw skin.
My student days at Oxford were ruined by flare-ups that made me feel so horrible that I pretended to have gone home for a few days, rather than risk being seen.
However, I consulted a GP. He prescribed a mild antibiotic which I took for five years and which reduced most of the volcanic eruptions. When I left university, I also discovered that sunbathing and sun loungers warded off the worst of my acne, and I decided I’d rather risk skin cancer than look like the surface of the moon.
When I met my husband, Angus, at GQ magazine, where he was associate editor, I could pass as reasonably attractive as long as I wore a full face of makeup.
Being accepted and loved, imperfections and all, meant I was no longer at war with my skin. No one was more surprised than I when I became editor of The Erotic Review magazine, at age 27, and was asked to participate in sexy photo shoots to promote the publication. I soon discovered that a good makeup artist can make you look like a movie star. It wasn’t until I turned 40 that I finally let go of the idea that it was aggrandizing to treat my bad skin as a major disorder.
As a “life begins” gift, I went to a dermatologist on Harley Street. He diagnosed acne and rosacea and prescribed Skinoren (containing azelaic acid) which caused an immediate transformation. I have never suffered to the same extent again. I think a light application of tinted moisturizer can even make strangers tell me I have “great skin.”
But I feel sad about my youth: all that time wasted in misery and applying layers of makeup when a good dermatologist could have helped me sooner.
No one ever suggested that you might still find yourself dealing with pimples in middle age. And the only “miracle” remedy I ever heard of was Roaccutane, which was known to have serious side effects in some users. But here’s the comforting news for women whose lives have been ruined by acne. When you hit menopause, since I’m 56, that stubborn, oily skin is just starting to dry out.
While your English rose friends may find their epidermis furrowed with fine lines, yours may be wrinkle-free. My dermatologist said that this is one of the advantages that can come from having rougher skin, and now I am often told that I look young for my age, despite having made no changes.
So here’s some good news for the blemished: you’ll save a fortune with Botox and have the nobility that comes from suffering!