3 posts tagged “beauty”

All this hype about Sean Avery and his "internship" at Vogue has seriously made me wonder what a real intern does.

You know, the fresh-out-of-college (or perhaps still in college) twenty-somethings dying to become the next Anna Wintour, or the Devil Wears Prada gal, who would do anything just to have a taste of the high-fashion magazine world. Even if that taste means running around New York City (or in my case London) dropping off clothes, running silly errands, and getting coffee. I've been a fashion intern. In PR. It's not all glamorous like shows such as The Hills make it seem. Or as fabulous and involved as Sean Avery's diary explains:

I jumped right in. First up was a creative meeting attended by the magazine's senior staff, which gave me a broad look at upcoming shoots, potential covers, and which writers, editors, and photographers were covering which stories.

You're kidding, me. Senior staff? Meetings? Actual insight? Assistants, let alone interns, hardly get this privilege. Plus, he is a guest editor for Men's Vogue. Okay. I get it. He's a famous hockey player. Professional. In his late twenties. But a blurb in New York Magazine mentions,

To be afforded such responsibility can only mean he's doing a truly stupendous job as an intern.

I seriously doubt that him being awarded such luxuries as an intern, so unlike other Vogue interns, means he's doing a "stupendous job." Frankly, I think it means he's just "well-connected" and is good press for the magazine and its internship program (especially after Devil Wears Prada, the book and the movie, that divulged...well sort of...the harsh reality behind high-fashion glossies).

Truly, why should he have an up on all the other fashionistas dying to have the job, too, who have the same credentials he's claiming -- a sincere interest in fashion and clothes -- if not more qualified ones, like an education in the subject (and professional writing experience). Everyone who loves fashion, it seems, wants to work at Vogue, because like many people say, it's the "bible of fashion." And who doesn't want to say they've worked on the Bible? The industry has a glamorous, party-life facade, but what's underneath it all is overworked young people in a drama-central atmosphere. I want to know: is it worth it?

Finally, New York Magazine broke the ice and spoke to some real Vogue interns, who essentially revealed that all Sean Avery is getting is special treatment. He got his own desk (and assignments!) when all they got was a cramped, shared space, a list of unrealistic requests and insane amounts grunt work -- expected to be performed in stilettos.

Who are we supposed to believe?

If you have any stories about your personal experience in the industry, speak up! Let's hear 'em.

So last night marks the day I indulged in my second facial. Wait. Let me rephrase that. Yesterday I endured the poking and prodding, circular massaging motions, and after-the-fact redness and swelling that was, in fact, a "SkinBella Particle-Free Dermabrasion" facial rejuvenation. Sometimes I am amazed by what I am willing to put myself through in attempts to have a clear complexion. Five years of a toxic (in my opinion) topical prescription, though, still seems worse than the painful poking and prodding. Let me explain.

Since my last facial a month ago, my skin became noticeably worse. It's always hard to pinpoint one reason why my

acne gets so bad in one particular area of my face (my chin), probably because there isn't, well, one reason. There are many (cat, boyfriend's hair products, my hair products, fingers touching my face, my phone, etc). So this time around during my facial, my esthetician had quite the extracting job to do. It was the first time I had to literally fight back tears during a beauty treatment. Extracting the bacteria from my face was, yes, that painful. But is it as bad as the potential side effects of my previous treatments? No. I'd rather deal with the extracting than with icky, birth defect-causing chemicals wandering my bloodstream.

That said, my esthetician was fabulous. She provided me with some insight and another perspective about combating acne. Plus, I left with cleanser and lotion samples. I want to do everything I can to combat my acne naturally, for now, and stay away from the prescriptions that I know a dermatologist will recommend (plus, I swear, I have tried them all at this point). As long as I can prevent scarring and make some headway, I shall continue down this road to (hopefully) clearer skin. I know it's under there. I've had it before!

So I indulged on Sunday and had my first facial. A fancy, schmancy treatment with particle-free dermabrasions and that whole ordeal. About a month ago, I figured, what the hell, it's going to be Spa Week/Month. The rate was unbeatable. I secured one of the last weekend appointments. After having one of the most pleasant Sunday afternoons I've had in a while, prancing around in Cow Hollow catching up with a friend, I made my way to the day spa, a short walk down the hill from my flat. It wasn't difficult to soak up the relaxing, heavily-floral-scented atmosphere. And the soft palms of my facialist were deeply soothing.

It was the device they used on my face that startled me a little. The "particle-free dermabrasion" essentially involves a complicated mixture of serums and creams applied in a specific order and a exfoliating device that sounds like tiny razors are shaving off all your dead skin particles. They also take a tiny metal sharp poke-and-prodding device and perform "extractions," picking at my pores. But yes, it felt good. Like a toxin release -- okay, maybe I've just been reading too many beauty blogs and writing too much beauty copy at work. Either way, I left the spa having left a hefty tip and with a glowing (what I like to consider a polite way of saying "shiny") complexion.

Here's the thing. I've struggled with acne since high school. Until mid-March, I was always on a combination of acne prescriptions, from pills to creams to anti-bac face wipes. After months of online research, and unexplainable fluctuations in the clearness of my complexion, I stopped my meds cold-turkey. There has to be a more natural way to clear up my skin. I was on this heavy-duty cream for five years. Turns out, it's so harsh that it causes birth defects. That was the whole reason why I had refused to try Accutane. Too harsh. This, too? I just don't want that stuff in my body. Whatever was making my skin break-out when I was sixteen can't possibly be the same thing that's making it break-out now, so why are my medications the same? I have tried countless prescriptions to clear up my face, and yet here I am, twenty-two, battling break-outs like I'm still pubescent.

Since March, I have been trying an all-natural skincare line, MyChelle, recommended to me by a friend, and have seen varying results. Some days, weeks feel more successful than others. I figured that getting a facial might also help -- another way to clear out my prescription-laden body and counteract it with things not known to be harmful, cancerous.

And yet this is what I wonder: at what point is it too much? That all my fussing, "fixing" is only making it worse. That my skin is situationally sensitive, deeply affected by hormones, stress, or something else that I can only control to a certain extent. I hate the pressure put on having clear skin, those expectations perpetrated by an industry that frequently airbrushes. I take pride in feeling confident about who I am, and to let this one cosmetic thing affect me so much, to take over my moods sometimes, is frustrating.

And yet I give in. I have another facial scheduled for May.