I do remember my first pimple. 1983 and I begged my mother to buy Clearasil. She came home with cleanser, toner and moisturiser the pharmacist said would have a better long term result. I hated that pharmacist and yelled at my mother. Why couldn’t she just let me put hydrogen peroxide on my face like other teenagers?
In my early 40s I became a newspaper magazine editor; free lipstick, skincare and far too many opportunities for self-doubt. I learned to say “fragrance” instead of “perfume” but remained terrified of the beauty industry. Photographer Yvonne Todd’s “Bellevue” portraits of cosmetic counter consultants trigger me in a way I still can’t articulate. Imagine being born knowing whether you are a blue-red or an orange-red?
In 2014, I tracked my beauty spend for the year. The regime I considered minimalist came in at $3985 ($5191 in today’s dollars). Did I want to pay for monthly facials, pedicures and potions – or a three-week overseas holiday?
I ditched the treatments and started feeding my face a simple but cost-effective diet: Kiehl’s cleanser, Cetaphil moisturiser and the occasional splash of Antipodes rosehip oil. And then, one day, I woke up – 54 and tired. Whatever I had been doing was no longer enough.
Marilyn Monroe is said to have glowed in photographs because of the way the camera flash caught her facial fuzz. As a woman on her way to developing a full menopausal beard, even candlelight is dangerous. Like, literally, a fire risk.
In my 50s, everything about my skin has changed. The years, and the hormonal shifts that come with menopause, are sitting heavily on my face.
Why had I abandoned a skincare routine on the brink of the decade I would clearly need it the most?
I don’t want to turn back time – my laugh lines are deep testimonials to a good life, two vertical furrows between my eyes are the legacy of thinking hard and often, and I despair at the “should I get Botox” conversations tormenting younger colleagues – but I do want healthier skin.
Early July and my skin is dull and sallow. Squeezed spots become scabs that take weeks to heal. The bags under my eyes are deep and dark. “Congested”, a word I’ve previously only associated with a cold, is now being applied to my complexion. “Milia” (hard cysts made of trapped, dead cells that I know I should not be digging out with a needle) are popping up everywhere.
My forehead feels like sandpaper and even my eyelids are dry and flaky. Perversely, the creases down the side of my nose breed squishy whiteheads and the powder foundation that used to hide my pores now emphasises them. My formerly rosy cheeks are red spider webs of broken capillaries.
At my kitchen table, I stare into a magnifying mirror: Can I restore my inner radiance? Do modern products have the power to deliver smoother, calmer and more hydrated skin? Is the beauty industry just an expensive promise in pretty packaging?
First stop, Ashleigh Cometti, Viva beauty editor and resident expert on all things moisturising.
“Please don’t get a facelift,” she says, sipping an oat milk latte. I nearly choke on my long black. I assumed she’d prescribe an eye cream; maybe a serum or two.
The minutes pass in a blur of words I’ve never considered applying to my face: Chemical peels. Lasers. Lactic acid. Glycolic acid. Microneedling. Microcurrents. Dermaplaning. LED masks. Intense pulsed light therapy. Gua sha stones.
Ashleigh is forensic in her approach. What products do I use now? How often do I wash my makeup brushes? When did I last replace my beauty blender? Recently, she says, she cut open a sponge to discover its interior was black with mould.
“Twelve weeks of in-clinic treatments, plus topical products, and you should notice a change,” she says. “Six months for a real difference. If I’m trialling a product, it’s a minimum of four weeks, because the skin renews every 28 days. The key will be consistency.”
My beauty boot camp had begun.
Retinol, sunscreen – and injectables
How much is too much to spend on your face?
I’m searching Farmer’s online shopfront for skincare. The department store that sold me my first toaster, couch and ceramide capsules (in that order) has a $4.95 single use blueberry sheet mask for “elasticity” – and a $1197 (plus postage) 30ml pump bottle of Chanel Sublimage L’extrait de Nuit Ultimate Repair Night Concentrate. What the f***? (And I do not mean “face”).
Where do you even start to make the right skincare decisions when just one store lists more than 2000 products? Thanks to Ashleigh’s contacts, I have an appointment with an expert.
At a cosmetic clinic in an expensive postcode, treatments are performed by qualified GPs and registered nurses. The procedures are high-tech; the appearance “medicine” administered by injection.
In reception, I fill out a form as a departing client counts out $100 bills. The cost of her perfect face will not be listed on any credit card statements this month. The form, meanwhile, is taking a shockingly long time to complete. I hadn’t realised just how many things I wasn’t loving about my skin.
Dr: How do you feel about the colour and unevenness?
Me: “I have redness. And I can feel myself sweating right now . . .”
Dr: Are you going through menopause at the moment, or have you been?
Me: “I’ve had a hysterectomy, but I kept one ovary . . .”
The consultation is thorough, friendly and professional. The firmness of my skin? The lines? The symmetry? The volume? Anything sagging? How do I feel about my moles? Any scars? The doctor discusses options for reducing redness, shrinking pores and improving the turnover of skin cells. Tighten, smooth and lift are the words du jour. Some procedures (and she proposes six, plus peels and dermaplaning) will take up to two hours. Pain levels? Between a four and a five out of 10, she replies.
I’m convinced nothing hurts like an abdominal hysterectomy with a vertical incision but, still – I haven’t had children, a tattoo or even a bikini wax. Later, on a WhatsApp chat with friends aged from their 40s to 60s, I ask: “Anyone use IPL? Trying to get a sense of how much it will hurt?”
Sample responses:
“Once for peach fuzz on my face. Excruciating. Like a hundred bee stings and I have a high threshold for pain. Now I have dermaplaning. Easy as!”
“IPL? I’m picking we are not talking about the Indian Premier League?”
“I had it to remove the brows I’d had tattooed on and it just about killed me – like being flicked again and again with a whole bunch of teeny rubber bands. Downtime was pretty minimal though.”
“I thought it was a craft beer.”
The older I get, the more divided this particular friend group is on issues of appearance. Some ferociously fight the years, others are adamant they’ll never submit to liquid facelifts. (Hair colour is non-negotiable – brunettes have gone blonde but, so far, nobody is gracefully greying.)
What’s fascinating is how much we don’t talk about it. Menopause and sex? Intimately! Menopause and cosmetic medicine? Only in the abstract.
I think women over 50 are more afraid of being judged than 20-somethings who happily compare chemically-enhanced pouts. It’s easy to go public about injectables and fillers when, deep down, you know you look just fine without them. At a certain point, these procedures stop being a fun diversion. For women at the top of their games who, generally, don’t take shit from anyone, I suspect it is galling (and a little embarrassing) to admit: I’m ageing and I don’t like it.
Back at the cosmetic clinic, I am being educated on the benefits of injecting hyaluronic acid. A little stingy at first, but keep it up for two years? Transformative!
The doctor moves on to discuss home skincare. Retinol. Sunscreen. Vitamin C. Vitamin B. I agree to it all, but who even am I now? I know I need to do more reading, but I’m sold. I have projected my face to 2026 and strangers are stopping me on the street to comment on its glow.
In medieval times, they called it elixir vitae – a potion supposed to grant eternal youth. My quest to restore radiance comes with a $5505 price tag (excluding daily skincare products). I don’t own a house. It’s not like I’ll need the money for a kitchen renovation.
False start. Always read the fine print. Some health conditions and medications (including blood thinners for atrial fibrillation) do not entirely align with the proposed plan. I grapple with this for a couple of days – the risks are minuscule, a gazillion people have done this before me, etc – but ultimately, I’m compelled to admit:
I’m super comfortable with the environment and care levels I experienced at my clinic appointment, but can’t shake the “what if/worst case scenario” fears. Do my concerns about my tired old skin outweigh concerns I’ll bruise awfully or stress myself into a bout of AF? Just because I can do this, do I think I should?
I’m surprised to feel a little disappointed. Secretly, I promise myself – if Plan B doesn’t work, I am totally going back to that nice doctor in the leafy suburb.
Plan B: The skincare-only alternative
The last time I had a facial, the ding of a temple bell signified the batik-clad beautician had finished pushing her thumbs through my actual temples.
Skintopia, in Auckland’s Herne Bay, is the exact opposite of that candlelight and sandalwood experience.
My first consultation is in the open plan “skin lounge” – glass walls, loads of sunlight, and zero whale music. The treatment menu reads like a gym membership (ProSkin 60, OxyGlow, Power Up) and the skincare partner sounds like science (Dermalogica).
A media cheat sheet informs me this is a “skin centre”, not a beauty salon or spa. The therapists (not beauticians) say “brightening” not “lightening” or “whitening”. A facial has become a treatment, a pimple is a blemish. There will be no “miracles”. Just “results”.
“You’ll be placing your head into the machine and there are different lights and different settings . . .”
That’s therapist Bianka Dalton guiding me through an Observ Skin Diagnostic, AKA the “before” photographs. I catch words like vascular, hydration, pigmentation and oil flow and – great news – discover I’m the perfect candidate for a new “lifting” eye cream.
It costs $237 for 15ml (or approximately three teaspoons). The instructions tell me to dispense pea-sized blobs, but my decades reading beauty mags have not been wasted. I know for a FACT eye cream is measured in rice grain-sized blobs.
To be honest, I’m an eye cream sceptic (compared to regular moisturiser, it always seems twice the price for half the amount) but three weeks into this trial, I make a startling discovery. My eyelids are coated in vellus hairs – teeny, tiny strands that help my skin feel touch, vibration, heat and pressure. Did they sprout overnight? Or were they previously hidden in the fine lines that have magically plumped and hydrated?
I’m getting ahead of myself.
“Looking at your skin, your barrier is definitely impaired,” Bianka told me on that first visit. “We want to work on strengthening your barrier.”
The language is new to me. I imagine my face as a car hurtling towards a clifftop. I am through the guard rail and Bianka is the ambulance at the bottom, dispensing around $1500 worth of skincare products and another $750 worth of in-clinic treatments. In three months the barrier will hold. I will take that turn in the road and the next one and the next one. The travel will not show on my face.
“Can you actually do that?” asks my husband. “Replenish your barrier?”
I’ve laid five products on our kitchen table and asked him to estimate their worth. “Some of them look really expensive?” (Correct). “Two hundred bucks all up?” (Very incorrect).
Every morning, I use a Dermalogica cleanser in the shower and a serum, moisturiser and sunblock at the kitchen table. At night it’s the same, minus the sunblock and with a different, more intense moisturiser. I’m also consuming a daily dose of Glow Ageless powder ($79 for 150g) from The Beauty Chef. Ingredients include mung beans, chickpeas, sweet potato and shiitake mushroom. Mixed with water, it’s simultaneously gritty and slippery – like an unset jelly for the over 50s.
I was concerned how much time I might have to devote to a skincare regime. Ultimately, I’ll spend longer staring at my face than I do slapping products on it. Quite quickly, something amazing is happening. Blemishes fade fast, I haven’t had a whitehead in my nose crease for days and even the stubborn milia bumps lie flatter on my face – are they melting? If I had to pick a word to describe this, it would be “renewal”. Every day, I feel like fresh new cells have busted their way to the surface.
Another weird thing? I’ve been to the dentist for the first time in a decade, had a mammogram and booked an overdue smear test. Self care is breeding self care. This is a dividend I wasn’t expecting.
“It can make you feel good having a little routine at home,” agrees Bianka. “Having your products lined up and making yourself accountable.”
My first in-clinic treatment was the Dermalogica ProCalm60 aimed at reducing sensitivity and calming my skin. Mid-August and the redness is lessening and the skin near my hairline is noticeably smoother. My “barrier” is deemed strong enough for the action-packed ProSkin60 with its “super charge” add ons.
At this second treatment, very tiny stainless cones will “tap” my skin. Nanoinfusion, according to the experts, creates channels for product – in this case hyaluronic acid – to penetrate deeper. It’s painless but what is it doing to my already spider-veined cheeks? (My worries are groundless. Next day, the broken capillaries are even less visible).
Taking notes is tricky when you’re lying horizontal under a weighted blanket, but in a series of post-treatment Ubers, I record the highlights on my phone: “Cold rubber mask” (the feel of a cooling contour masque). “Buttercup yellow” (the colour of the LED light treatment aimed at increasing hydration and skin thickness). “Crickets” (the noise of a hand-held, non-invasive firming and smoothing tool that chirrups like a backyard at dusk). “Piggy snore” (model’s own).
With each visit, my at-home product list evolves.
I add a Vitamin C-based evening serum ($200) that makes me feel like a kid eating sticky mandarins. And there’s an oatmeal “milkfoliant” I use every third day that refines my pores like nothing I’ve experienced before. It also costs $133 for 74g. (Have I recently blitzed supermarket porridge in a blender? Watch this space and please don’t tell Bianka or the beauty editor).
Three months and $2250 – the results are in, was it worth it?
In 2024, we’re all trying to be more resilient. Finally, I have the face to match the buzzword. Bianka deems my skin sufficiently strengthened and desensitised to cope with products that will target an oily tone and enlarged pores. She adds a slow-release retinol clearing oil (that includes salicylic acid) to my home care regime. It’s a $180 quadruple-whammy, aimed at fine lines, wrinkles, hyperpigmentation and active breakouts. When it bleeps its first blemish overnight I think of that insecure teenager with her first pimple. How far has my face come?
My third and final session was, at my request, going to include dermaplaning – a beauty industry euphemism for a close shave of the fine facial hair I’m increasingly self-conscious about. At the last minute, I say no. I’m reassured the hair does not grow back darker or thicker but removing it feels conformative. It’s enough to deal to my legs and underarms. The patriarchy can learn to live with my peach fuzz.
I am, however, totally there for the OxyGlow treatment in which Bianka will use an oxygen infusion tool to push a rejuvenating serum into my skin. In the background, a machine emits a rhythmic whoosh. My face is on life support – and I think it’s working.
“It feels . . .” I’m searching for the words as I pat my cheeks and forehead. “Firmer. But also fresher?”
It looks amazing. Dewy, walk-me-down-the-aisle-right-now, amazing. My three-month experiment is up. I’ve applied approximately $2250 worth of treatment and products to my 54-year-old face and developed a twice-daily skincare habit I plan to maintain. Would a holiday have provided an equally effective rest and reset? I just don’t think so.
“Your skin looks like you’re in your 20s,” says my husband and for so many reasons (including how great I’d look in the post OxyGlow photos) I’d remarry him tomorrow.
At Skintopia for the official photos, my face knows there’s a test and has come to the party with its first break-out in the entire three months. Bianka is, nevertheless, ecstatic when she compares the before and after imagery.
“Look at your fine lines! Wow. See how much smoother in texture your skin is? More clear, less redness, less dehydration.
“In the before image, you can see texture is rough, there is a lot of oil and shine, redness on forehead, wrinkles and fine lines around eyes. In the after image – significant reduction in fine lines, the texture looks more even and oiliness is reduced. Incredible results!”
Her main message: “It doesn’t matter what age you are, you can improve your skin.”
I went into this three-month experiment wondering if the beauty industry was all smoke and magnified mirrors. I emerged a (literally) changed woman. No needles, no fillers, no pain? Not entirely true. Somewhere, a bank account is writhing in agony. But the kitchen table selfies show it was money well spent.
Skintopia treatment notes
July: Dermalogica ProCalm 60, $250. A targeted treatment to help hydrate, balance, and restore the skin barrier for reduced sensitivity and calmer skin.
August: Dermalogica ProSkin 60, $170 + Super Charge $80. Includes facial massage and either microcurrent or hydrodermabrasion to target any skin concerns, improve the overall health of the skin and dramatically enhance results. Bianka used the Multivitamin Power Exfoliant to enhance exfoliation as Kim’s barrier had improved already. She then nanoinfused hyaluronic acid for more hydration and used contour mask as a bespoke treatment.
September: Oxyglow, $250. This 60-minute skin quenching treatment incorporates an oxygen machine followed by an LED light to hydrate, repair and heal. Bianka used hyaluronic acid to push into Kim’s skin and LED light in green and yellow to plump, hydrate, and firm the skin.
Kim Knight is an award-winning senior journalist with the New Zealand Herald’s premium lifestyle team.
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