I really love skincare. The closer I get to oozing out of my thirties (I refuse to step out, they’ll have to drag me into my fortieth birthday with my fingernails digging grooves in the floor), the more I love it.
I wander round Priceline, revelling in descriptions of peptides and antioxidants, Dead Sea algae and hyaluronic acid. I got actively excited when Aldi released a serum containing synthetic snake venom that promised to paralyse those muscles between my eyes which make me look like I’m permanently squinting at a badly written set of instructions while suffering from a demon hangover. “Ugh, how can you rub snake venom on your face?” scoffed a friend when she caught me gleefully arranging the row of shiny tubes in my bathroom cupboard. Get this, honey. I would rub the actual snake on my face to get rid of those frown lines. Bring on the rattler.
I know that this isn’t toeing the party line. I’m meant to rejoice in the story of my life being written in those annoying little lines that radiate from the corners of my mouth. I’m meant to celebrate the memories of smiles caught in my crow’s feet, and reminisce fondly about the miracle of childbirth as I caress the scar left by two caesarean sections (thanks for not turning the right way up, kids, I’m going to make you pay for a really top-notch old folks home). I definitely should not get annoyed with my children when they fossick through my hair like monkeys looking for fleas, crowing in triumph when they find another sticky-up grey one.
But sod that. I’m not going gently into that good night. And so, despite the fact that a really honest marketing campaign would label those pretty little pots ‘Lard, with a dash of misplaced hope’, I’m off to Priceline. I’ve heard there’s a new cream that tricks your face into looking like it’s been mildly stung by a bee. Anaphylactic shock is an entirely reasonable price to pay for the perfect pout.