Skincare Posts on Crowch

Every morning, I wake up, stare into the mirror, and whisper, “Let’s fix the damage.” Not emotional damage — that’s for therapy I keep rescheduling. I’m talking skin. My skincare routine has more steps than my social life, and I follow each one with the kind of intensity normally reserved for grudges.

Cleanser? That’s how I erase the sins of yesterday. Toner? It’s a polite way of saying “Try harder.” Exfoliator? Passive-aggressive sandpaper for the soul. Every swipe is a tiny, whispered insult to my past choices — like staying up until 2 a.m. watching cooking shows while eating cereal out of a mug.

I don’t moisturize for glow. I moisturize to prove I still care about something. I layer serums like I layer sarcasm — for protection, for performance, for the illusion of control. And every “hydrating gel” is really just emotional cushioning with a $48 price tag.

There’s a certain satisfaction in applying eye cream like I’m erasing every tired conversation I’ve had this week. My under-eyes? War zones. My concealer? Diplomacy. My jade roller? A silent scream in the shape of a stone. Do I feel better after? Marginally. Do I look like I’m holding it together? Precisely.

Ultimately, skincare isn’t self-care. It’s self-defense. It’s me, standing between my face and the chaos of the world, wielding toner like a tiny, lavender-scented sword. I’m not glowing. I’m armoring up. And honestly, in this economy? That’s the real miracle cream.