28 August 2014: (Way) More than Skin Deep

(way) more than skin deep

Warning: if you are a person who finds talk of skincare soul-crushingly boring (or who has never counted the number of blackheads on their noses—not that I'm speaking from experience), this post might send you into a mind-numbing spiral.

If, however, you are someone who's curious about the massive amounts of French skincare that's stocked just steps away in every pharmacie you enter, then this post is definitely for you.

I'll start with a brief history of my descent into product junkie-ism. When we were living here in Paris in 2010, there were many gray, stormy days where we couldn't brave the icy streets for fear of slip 'n' sliding our way to a shattered patella, so we spent days on end inside our tiny studio apartment doing indoor activities. (Get your minds out of the gutter.) These activities included reading, writing, drawing, cooking, singing (I was rehearing for a show back in Sacramento that would start up the month after we returned) and staring out the window at the bleak but beautiful rooftops from our tenth-floor aerie. Then I discovered YouTube.

While I was already familiar with the internet video site for its compilations of silly cats and human fails (I laugh like a loon at slapstick, painful comedy—there might be something wrong with me), I happened to stumble upon a YouTube niche of beauty tutorials when I searched "stage makeup" on a whim. Cue the angelic voices and shaft of light: I was in Heaven.

Four years on, I'm a devoted viewer of at least 10 or more YouTube "beauty gurus," who mostly eschew the guru title but who really have it down in the makeup-application and skincare-testing arenas. This latter category is how I came to be a frequent visitor (I would go so far as to say "stalker") of the French pharmacies that dot this city with their shining green crosses like the glowing green light at the end of Daisy's dock. (Yes, that was a shameful literary allusion. My English degree has to count for something, right?)

The thing that moving to Paris has taught me is that not only do the French love skincare more than most else (except maybe their dogs...and wine), but also that they must use something magical on their faces—almost every woman has good skin despite the massive amounts of smoking, drinking and (as mentioned in a previous post) strategic dehydration.

If you take a gander at the aisles and aisles of products crammed into the tiny pharmacies that pop up every two meters on the street, you'll probably generate some assumptions about French females. One is that they love to be bronzed. Not tan, "bronzed." There's a plethora of products that promise to add a touch of soleil to your skin—despite Northern Europe's decidedly un-sunny climate. You can apply fake tanning solution in a mousse, in an oil, in a spray—pretty much any way you'd like to achieve that particular orange-y brown look that screams "sunless tanner" more than "sunshine."

The other trend you'll notice is that almost every brand boasts water from a particular source that is deemed the "best" for your complexion. Evian makes tiny bottles of water to spray on your face (no joke). Avène adds "thermal spring water" into almost all of its products, as does La Roche Posay. You'd think Paris was surrounded by gushing mineral geysers rather than split by a filthy river and an even filthier canal.

The last thing that the walls and walls of gleaming cool-colored bottles will tell you (every brand seems dominated by spa-like colors: blue and white, green and white, pink and white, etc.) is that no matter what condition your skin is in, you will be able to find a customized product made exactly for your face. (I'm kind of surprised the bottles don't come inscribed with one's name.) Dry skin? There are about twenty different face washes and twice as many creams that can help. Dry skin with blemishes? Same. Acne-prone young skin? There's a cream for that. Acne-prone aging skin? There's a toner for that. It's no wonder that my husband wanders into the book section of our local Monoprix when I disappear into the skincare. It's like quicksand: once I'm in, I can't get out until Joshua hands me one end of a large branch and pulls me to safety.

Seeing as how I went from a soap-and-water kind of gal to a "I might as well try every face mask from this brand, since they all do different things" kind of junkie, I'm consistently surprised by my own interest, but it never wanes. It's like the siren call of skincare: if you try just one more product—find that perfect bottle of goo—you will have good skin forever. Or at least until you decide to try that new moisturizer.

The French are also frighteningly good at marketing to facial fanatics like myself. None of these American "teen splashes water on her cheeks and remarkably looks like she has a full face of makeup on" ads (you're not fooling anyone, Neutrogena). French ads are sensual, classy, featuring impeccably-dressed, beautifully-coiffed women who take almost the entire 30 seconds of airtime to massage a lotion into their stunningly bronzed skin. By the time that half-a-minute is up, you need that cream. Never mind that you can tell she's also wearing one of those afore-mentioned faux tans—who wouldn't want to look that classy rubbing on lotion?

Because of this marketing malarky (and because I live within walking distance of at least fourteen pharmacies, each with slightly different stock), my skincare "collection" has grown since we moved here from a couple of bottles and pots to an actual arsenal that takes up our tiny counter as well as precious real estate under the sink. Does my skin look any better? I'd like to think so. (There really must be something to that thermal spring water.) And when I get tired of my current routine, I can always go shopping...