You’re not going to wash your face with that, are you?”
“Soap isn’t meant for your face. It’s too harsh.”
“I’ve been using soap on my face for forty- . . . um, thirty-five years.”
“Well, you always say that my skin is soft, and I’m just telling you, you need to use a wash made for your face. It exfoliates.”
She let me try hers. It smelled great. It was made of ground up apricot pits. I got some in my eye. It felt like a shard of glass under my lid. “It’s exfoliating my eye! Ow!”
My skin began to tingle, then burn. She added, “It has acid in it to peel away dead skin.
The origin of exfoliate basically means to strip leaves off a tree. Soap is too harsh, but go ahead and use Agent Orange.
We do things to make others happy. Some people dress up as nuns or student nurses. I bought a $12 bottle of acid and sandpaper and rubbed it on my face in the hopes of being soft and pretty for her. The ingredient list looked suspiciously like a product I once used to tan leather. So I guess if it makes my wallet tough enough to sit on all day, it would . . . well, maybe that’s not the best comparison.
“Don’t forget toner,” she said. “And moisturizer. And no, you can’t use hand lotion on your face. It’s too harsh.”
I used regular bar soap all through high school into college. My soap-clean face was good enough to earn a wife and spawn kids. Although we got divorced seven years later there was no mention in the decree blaming soap. I went on to date some truly remarkable women for years thereafter with my soap-face, and even Chastising Girlfriend liked me enough as-was to set up shop in my bathroom. Then I go from one bar of soap to—I stopped typing just now to go count—nineteen face and hair products.
Of course, the girlfriend is long gone.
Anybody need a wallet?