Added to basket
Unapplied Changes
Age 1–27
Soap. A wet fl annel. Hot water if I could be bothered to let the tap run long enough.
That was it. No serums. No SPF. No concept of ‘hydration’. Just blind faith in soap, tap water and genetics.
Age 27–35
I met my future wife. She introduced me to the exotic world of ‘facewash’. Not mine, obviously. Hers. Followed by moisturiser. Also, hers.
I didn’t ask questions. I applied what I was told. My skin improved. Marriage followed. Correlation noted.
Age 35–39
Somewhere between long-haul fl ights, late nights and squinting at emails I began to look…tired. Slightly more world weary.
I dabbled. A supermarket eye roller lived in the fridge for the mornings after the nights before. I fl irted with the idea of serums. Maybe a facemask here and there. But ultimately, it was still facewash and moisturiser. Still my wife’s.
Then a few months ago, working at Wigmore, I was given an opportunity I probably wouldn’t have sought out myself. A proper, considered skincare regime. Not borrowed. Not improvised. Mine.
And this is where things shifted.
A cleanser that actually felt like it was doing something. It smells incredible, fresh oranges in the morning, and somehow manages to feel luxurious and clean all at the same time.
An exfoliator a few times a week that smells faintly of watermelon and gets in deep to clear out the London grime. Pollution, late nights, tube air. Gone.
A toner that seals everything up afterwards. A quiet reset button before the next step.
A serum targeted to what my skin really needed, not what happened to be in the bathroom cupboard.
An eye cream that fi ghts against the ever increasing…darkness. The small but persistent signs that I am, in fact, nearly 40.
A proper day cream that locksv everything in and makes my skin feel awake and ready to face the world.
And of course, an SPF that I now apply daily, because apparently, if I don’t, I will regret it…
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no overnight transformation. But there was consistency. A sense that I wasn’t just washing my face, I was looking after it.
And here’s the honest bit. Yes, my skin looks better. Yes, it feels better.
But more than that, I enjoyed it!
The ritual. The texture of different products. The subtle smells. The feeling that I was doing something deliberate and good for myself.
Ten extra minutes a day. That’s all it takes. Ten minutes that feel like mine. Ten minutes of small, sensory wins before the noise of everyday life takes over.
At nearly 40, I’m not chasing perfection. I’m not trying to look 25 again. I’m just protecting what I’ve got. Looking after the face that’s done a fair bit of living already. And quietly investing in whatever comes next.
And for a lad who once thought soap and a fl annel was the way to go, that feels like progress.
