I’ve been brushing my face. I thought you should know.
I’ve been brushing it dry, using gentle upward strokes. Brushing my neck, too. And what other women might refer to as their décolletage, but what is for me, all skin and sternum.
When I pull the brush across my forehead, my skin ripples even under the light pressure. It’s as disconcerting as it is mesmerizing—a reminder that my skin’s growing a bit looser and my cheeks a little less round. There are fine smile lines around my eyes, even when I’m not smiling. Not complaints, just observations.
A few days ago, Faye looked at my face and announced, unprompted: “You don’t have wrinkles now, but you will when you’re a hundred.”
If I’m lucky, I thought. And so, perspective is thing I try to bear in mind.
Back to the face brush: I’m not claiming it works miracles, but it’s sure formed a habit. It feels less perfunctory and more sacred than other small practices of personal hygiene, and so at the risk of waxing poetic on the topic of sloughing off dead skin cells, I’ll say that I find it rather restorative.
More than that, there seems to be a physiological benefit. My skin feels less dry after brushing and I don’t think I’ve totally deluded myself into thinking that after brushing my skin is better able to absorb my latest favorite face oil; that somehow, against all odds, I’ve managed to maintain a bit of the glow that’s normally dampened this time of year.
All this to say, that if you’re looking to form a new habit, I wouldn’t tell you not to brush your face. Or your neck. Or whatever kind of chest you have. As Faye would say, “I’m really into it.”
What about you guys? Any face brushing enthusiasts out there? Other miracle workers (or close-enough) that I should know about?
For the curious:
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