The Regime

A year in the service industry has meant a year spent chatting with other 20-something girls about their grooming habits. Let's face it, half of what a server can do to ensure a quality dining experience is make sure that they look groomed, professional and put together - the other half is to not fuck up. This may sound superficial, but it is true of most professions where you spend much of your time interacting with other people, and the pressure to make sure you don't look like you crawled out of a recycling bin is amplified in an industry where the majority of your profit is based on how much strangers like you. For this reason, conversations around the hot window or the computer systems over where to get the best shellac manicure, whose ombre has turned out best, and what products everyone uses were commonplace. This led me to reflect on what I realize is my rather intensive skincare regime. That said, I have pretty good skin. Sure, I suffer from the occasional breakout, but I take care of my skin and it shows. So here it is - my skin care regimen.

The Products

Ok, so I use a lot of Kiehl's, you may note. I really do find most of their products to be very high quality for just shy of luxury brand prices.

I have recently been converted, during my stay in Paris, to Bioderma's sensitive skin cleanser. I use it primarily as a makeup remover, and for that, it is phenomenal. Bioderma is available in Canada, though it is much more expensive (I bought two of those 500ml bottles for €14.50, or $18.02CAD - Shopper's Drug Mart sells a 250ml bottle for $22.00CAD). However, if you're looking for a quick and gentle makeup remover, it is one of the best I've ever used. However, I don't use it as a substitute for my regular cleanser.
I use an exfoliating pad and either Kiehl's Ultra Facial Cleanser or their men's line's Facial Fuel. The salesperson may have hesitated when I told her I needed the Facial Fuel - their men's line is, after all, specially formulated for men's skin, which, on the face, is supposedly thicker - but the menthol and caffeine in the face wash is irresistibly refreshing. I usually use the Facial Fuel if I desperately need external stimuli to wake myself up. 
The scrubbing pad was a gift from my mum, who has picked up a whole array in varying sizes, and after at least 5 minutes of internet research, I discovered the brand: SpaCells, by Supracor. One side of the pad is soft enough for daily use, and the other side serving for a firmer
exfoliation. It may or not provide the stimulating massage it's website claims, but I find it to be a lot simpler to use than facecloths.

Post cleansing, I tone. I know a lot of people find toners to be unnecessary, but the older I get the more prone I become to breakouts (my mum suffered from pretty severe adult acne, so it's in the genes), so I opt for the extra step. And because my concern is blemishes, I use Proactive. I loathe Kiehl's Gentle Facial Toner. I've used it many times, but I find that, rather than leaving my skin with the tingly clean feeling of most toners, I feel like there is a film of milk left on my skin.

Post cleansing, I use my anti-aging battalion. Too young to be concerned about aging? Exactly. I am doing everything I can to preserve my skin's current condition. I know that many people find anti-aging serums to be at odds with blemish prone skin, but I haven't found a correlation between anti-aging creams and breakouts personally.

I use Kiehl's again, this time their pricier dermatological line's Powerful Strength Line Reducing Concentrate. It boasts the highest concentration of vitamin C found in any over-the-counter [read: dermatologist prescription free] face cream. I love that it is lightweight and even warming. And the texture it leaves my skin is just lovely. I follow that up with their best-selling Midnight Recovery Eye treatment or Creamy Eye Treatment; the former is an anti-aging treatment I use at night, the latter, strictly a moisturizer applied in the morning.

Final step? I wait a couple minutes and, in the morning, slather on the SPF 45; at night, apply a liberal amount of moisturizer to seal everything.

And Carmex - because lips are important too.

Pet Peeve #4: Bathroom Etiquette

I preface this with the promise that I am not going to talk about bowel movements.

I was just reading an article about things people get too wound up about, which prompted a moment of reflection, followed swiftly by the realization that I had to pee. I know - I am profound. While in the restroom, I used the last of the toilet paper. Shame on me. So I reached under the sink, grabbed a new roll, and replaced the empty tube. I even put it on so that the paper comes up over the top!

I do really hope that people get this. But most apparently don't.

So, basically, I am the spitting image of courtesy and consideration.

No. Wait. That's wrong. Is it just that I'm doing the bare minimum of what is considered reasonable, given the utter lack of time and exertion required? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Granted, I may go above and beyond by endeavouring to do this even when in public restrooms, peering around for back up rolls, or by informing staff when it needs to be done by someone with access to their toilettery stock (restaurants don't generally appreciate finding patrons squirreling through their dry storage, funny enough), but it just seems not only courteous, but logical. I mean, I don't have abundant faith in my bladder capacity necessarily - I could very well be the next person in this stall which, abhorrently, has no toilet paper.

Especially in restrooms where the toilet paper is visible from the toilet, how much lazier and self involved could someone be to just peace out post toilet paper erradication? I mean, you're already sitting down.

Vacances

Bonjour mon amis. Have you missed me? I have taken an extended sojourn from blogging to finish up my tenure at Earl's Tin Palace and enter some indulgent unemployment, riddled with travel and wine.

That is to say, I have whisked myself away to gay Paris (because I am my own hero in the so-called fairy tale that is my life). It has been an interesting trip, and is, sadly, almost at its close. I have done all the requisite tourist activities; I have toured the Louvre, enjoyed a picnic on the Sienne, dined in Montmarte, soaked up the beauty of the Musee D'Orsay, and picnicked at the Eiffel Tower (yes, ample picnics - baguette, cheese, sausage and wine abound). I was courted by a French man, walked the canal and sipped noisette in cafes. I have shopped. No where near as much as you would probably expect - my French diet has not instantly granted me a French figure, surprise surprise - but I have wandered kitschy Colette, briefly perused the enormity of the Galleries Lafayette and dug through the Friperies (vintage clothing boutiques) of the Marais.

It has certainly made the prospect of going home less than appealing. Going home only to move, again, and start in on intensive education for a career path which will not allow for any 10 day trips to Europe until I've earned at least a few years hard-worked tenure? Prospects look downright grim. Hopefully I can take some of this amour de la vie I have acquired in Paris and import it back to Canada with me.

Gary Clark Jr.

I'm loving Gary Clark Jr. right now. If you haven't heard anything by him, I would highly recommend giving a listen to the Bright Lights LP.

I am starting to slowly pull together a playlist in this vein - maybe alongside Adele and Esperanza Spalding? Any suggestions?

It's Happened...

I have been warily looking out for hallmarks of adulthood for a couple of years now. I fear the responsibility that seems intrinsically linked to the title of "adulthood." I celebrated my 19th birthday two years in a row under the truly dilusional impression that society expects more of twenty-year-olds than of teenagers. I have a degree - or two, in fact - but am not economically self sufficient, so dodged a bullet there. I work at a restaurant, and I am at turns pleased when people are surprised to hear how old I am and then offended when patrons are shocked that I could possibly be a manager (though, I will confess that the latter may have nothing to do with age, and more to do with my general demeanour favourite leather studded ring).

However, despite my cautious surveillance for hints that I could be approaching adulthood/self-sufficiency/independence/crowsfeet and fighting off all signs on the horizon, an indisputable indicator that boat races, costume parties and 3 am Wednesday night trips to Singapore Sam's for 7$ ginger beef may no longer be exactly age appropriate activities arrived on my doorstep.

Dun Dun.

Dun Dun......Dun Dun...Dun Dun. Dun Dun.

DunDunDunDunDunDunDunDun

DUN!

I have friends getting married. My friends. Friends I made binge drinking and bar hopping and playing rugby with. Not family friends. Not friends I was friends with when I was four and saw once every half dozen years since. Aly Feir and MudMaker. Friends who courted eachother by pretending they were going to go LARPing with me. Friends who have seen me go to the bar painted gold. Friends who I've quoted Jason Segal with. Friends I compared bruises with, ranted over America's Next Top Model with and kicked it in the quad like cliche liberal arts students with.

I knew this was coming before the invitation was tossed unceremoniously by my mother at my bathroom door. But it means it's real. It's not like my friend Alex and his boyfriend with the bluetooth plugged in his ear despite having had a brain tumour operated on at the age of 24, who, after dating for 3 months, swore "No, we're, like, for real getting married. We're going to have rings and a cake and a party and everything": the marraige about which I never heard of again. Aly and Baker are going to really get married.

And while it may not keep me from going to Kaskade straight after my 11:45pm flight from Paris lands, it does mean that 24-years-old is starting to look very different from 24-year-old to 24-year-old.

And it means that a wicked party is coming up.

 

And I am very, very happy for them.

Hey July

The clock is ticking. Not biologically. Literally. Yesterday was not only Canada Day, but the first day of my last month in Calgary before I depart on a series of adventures, most daunting of which is law school in Toronto. Oh sorry. By Toronto, I mean York. If you're wondering what the difference is, the first photo of "Toronto" that comes up in a google image search is:

Whereas the first photograph that comes up when your search criteria is "York Ontario," is:



That Comfort Inn is making me vastly uncomfortable with this upcoming relocation. Revel in that irony.

So time to make things worth while. More gym, more yoga, more time with friends. Bring in on July.

Shellac Pedicure - you are the bane of my existence

A little while ago I decided that I was going to really indulge and book myself in for a manicure and a pedicure at one of Calgary's fancier spas. When I booked, I told myself I wanted a shellac manicure, and just a regular pedicure to save myself 10 $. But I, ladies and gentlemen, am the biggest sucker, so when the woman on the line asked me if the pedicure was going to be shellac as well, I said "sure." She didn't offer me a deal or anything, I think she just misunderstood and I didn't bother to correct her, hanging up and thinking "What the hell? May as well." Because I think in rhyme.

That was in April.

I bought pure acetone and had to remove the shellac myself last night. I finally decided this was necessary after someone at work, marvelling, asked, "do you have a frech manicure on your toes? Just with grey polish?" I knew my toes were looking bedraggled for a while - a coworker of mine, who owns all her own shellac equipment, would hassle me every time I wore open toed shoes. But I have been wearing shellac on my nails (an attempt to keep them from peeling), so I haven't wanted to go around touching pure acetone. I rigged an ingenious system last night however, wearing dish gloves and weilding acetone-soaked bandaids around each toe. It took some serious time, and I looked ridiculous hobbling around my house on my heels for the 20 minutes it takes the acetone to dissolve the polish, but the shellac pedi is gone.

Let my experience serve as a lesson; no shellac pedicures ever.