The world divides into two types of people: the perennially clear-skinned and those who suffered with acne as teenagers.
The former will never know how it feels to stay locked in your bedroom because your skin is so pitted and angry you can’t face anyone’s pity or disgust.
Young men can sometimes bluster through the zits with charisma. Let’s face it, youthful acne never slowed down Gordon Ramsay. But for young women, judged so ruthlessly on their looks, it can feel debilitating to the point of hopelessness.
I’ve been that girl, with a face so livid from ill-squeezed spots that I felt no boy would ever kiss me, let alone date me. How could anyone love me when I had pimples across my back and chest and a big, headless bump that reappeared, time and again, in the soft skin of my cleavage?
Aged 16, I would stand for hours in front of the mirrored cabinet over our bathroom sink, trying to work out whether a spot was ripe for popping
The worst blemish of my life was the boil that surfaced atop my nose on the morning of my first grown-up party in London in 1985 when I was 17.
A gorgeous school friend had been asked to go as a student doctor’s date to a medical college Christmas ball in London. She agreed to go if I could attend, too, as the guest of his single friend. I tracked down a tight black 1950s cocktail dress and plans were proceeding well … until Vesuvius erupted.
My date’s disappointment was evident the moment he set eyes on me. And who can blame him? I wasn’t surprised when he disappeared an hour or so into the evening with a comely student nurse, leaving me to fend for myself.
I have never felt so lonely or unappealing, before or since.
You might think in an age of modern dermatology that ‘pizza face’ (as we vilely called acne in the 1980s) and the accompanying agony have disappeared. But new global rankings for diagnosis of acne show the UK is ranked globally at number eight out of 204 nations; 14 per cent of British adolescents have it.
Both my sons (now 16 and 20) have suffered mild acne. But my boys’ discomfort is nothing compared to one of my nieces who feels despair whenever spots appear, despite her obvious beauty.
I feel sad for young me: all that time wasted in misery and applying layers of make-up when a good skin doctor could have helped me sooner
Aged 16, I would stand for hours in front of the mirrored cabinet over our bathroom sink, trying to work out whether a spot was ripe for popping – which might lead to a brief cathartic ‘gotcha!’ – but more usually aggravating my skin into further revolt.
I tried every available lotion: Clearasil, Dettol, TCP, even bleach for the loo, but nothing worked. In fact, the bleach and Dettol were acts of self-sabotage, leaving horrible scabs and some scars that persist to this day. A part of me wanted to burn away 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 to my deep shame. What I remember most of all was how my spotty skin set me apart from my closest girl friends. For them, make-up was a choice rather than a necessity. I’d say around 25 years of my life were devoted to tracking down the best foundations for fair skin with a hint of yellow-olive.
I got good at covering up the over-picked mess of my face but, as evenings wore on, the spots would break through and I was filled with horror at the idea of any attractive male seeing me.
A date I went on aged 18 with a now-famous actor had to be abandoned at the ‘would you like to come upstairs for a drink?’ stage, because I was so ashamed of my real, raw skin.
My Oxford student days were blighted by outbreaks that made me feel so hideous I’d pretend I’d gone home for a few days, rather than risk being seen.
I did, however, consult a GP. He prescribed a mild antibiotic which I took for five years and which reduced the most volcanic outbreaks. When I left university, I also discovered that sunbathing and sunbeds drove away the worst of the acne and decided that I’d rather risk skin cancer than look like the surface of the moon.
By the time I met my husband, Angus, at GQ magazine, where he was deputy editor, I could pass for reasonably attractive so long as I wore a full face of make-up.
Being accepted and loved, blemishes and all, meant I was no longer angrily at war with my skin. No one was more surprised than me when I became editor of The Erotic Review magazine, aged 27, and was asked to participate in sexy photoshoots, promoting the publication. I soon discovered that a good make-up artist can make you look like a movie star. It was only when I turned 40 that I finally shook off the idea that it was self-aggrandising to treat my bad skin as a significant disorder.
As a ‘life begins’ treat, I took myself off to a Harley Street dermatologist. He diagnosed acne and rosacea and prescribed Skinoren (which contains Azelaic acid) that effected an immediate transformation. I’ve never suffered to the same degree again. I find a light application of tinted moisturiser can even lead to strangers telling me I have ‘great skin’.
But I feel sad for young me: all that time wasted in misery and applying layers of make-up when a good skin doctor could have helped me sooner.
No one ever suggested you might find yourself still dealing with zits in midlife. And the only ‘miracle’ remedy I heard of was Roaccutane, which was known to have serious side-effects for some users. But here’s the consoling news for women who’ve had their lives made miserable by acne. When you hit menopause, as I have aged 56, that greasy rebel skin is only just starting to dry out.
While your English-rose friends may find their epidermis criss-crossed with fine lines, yours may be wrinkle-free. My dermatologist said this is one upside that can come from having coarser skin, and I’m often told now I look young for my age, despite having had no tweakments.
So here’s some good news for the spotty: you’ll save a fortune on Botox and have the nobility that comes through suffering!