As a kid coming of age and starting to spend more time staring into a mirror, I thought I was blessed. I had a natural rosy flush—particularly convenient, since my mother didn’t let me use makeup until I was well into my late teens. Until…that flush just refused to go away, like a house guest squatting way beyond their welcome. The tiniest bit of sunlight, heat, cold, or the slightest heightened emotion, triggered my transformation into a raspberry lollipop. What felt like a blessing turned into a curse as I went into my twenties and thirties with heat pimples and breakouts that left scars despite my best efforts. By then, I was writing and researching beauty, and suspected I had something a little more specific than just ‘sensitive skin’. A chance meeting with a dermatologist in a dimly lit corner of the office confirmed my suspicion—Dr Kiran Sethi took one look at my face and pronounced, “You have rosacea.”
Rosacea is an autoimmune condition, which is a fancy way of saying: I have no control over any of it. There are different types of rosacea; people often have a mix of the four most common ones. One results in red skin, one in ‘acne’, another causes thickening of skin that also enlarges the nose, and a fourth can lead to dry and red eyes. I am blessed with a mix of the first two. Many have to deal with all four. Since autoimmune conditions usually don’t have a cure, the best I can hope for is management.
As someone who had a steady flow of some of the best products arriving at her desk, this was a cruel sentence. I used to light up at the sight of a new serum dropper or a shimmery blush swatch. Now it’s a pathetic cosmic joke.
The condition said: less is more. My curiosity said: how bad could it be if I tried this exfoliating jelly mask just once? Long story short, I destroyed my skin barrier. I looked for dermatologists and influencers who would share tips on which active ingredients to use and avoid, and so began a long period of trial and error. Niacinamide? Holy grail for pigmentation (one of the many goodies rosacea left me with) and soothing skin. Using it left me looking like an electrocuted cherub. Azelaic acid, another rosacea avenger, made my flush angrier. One by one, I tried every “gentle” solution meant to soothe my skin—and watched my face rebel like a teenager denied wi-fi.
Defeated, I consulted one of Mumbai’s top dermatologists, who was notoriously old-school. I was expected to wait for two hours at each confirmed appointment, which was followed by 45 seconds of a silent checkup with no explanation offered on the medicines and treatment being prescribed. I gave it a year and a half because I knew skin takes a while to resolve and heal. I emerged even more confused, my skin even angrier.
At work, during annoying situations where I tried my best to have my poker face on, my flush gave me away. A night out with more than two drinks meant I looked like a berserk painted doll. A diagnosis was one thing. But it didn’t lead to any form of management.
So, in the most dramatic swing, I gave up on doing what everyone told me was the right thing. I tried acid peels—gentle ones like lactic, PHA, and low concentrations of BHA and AHA. It went against the logic and science of what is recommended—abrasive agents and rosacea cannot be a good mix. But my skin lapped it up. Calmed down. I found a dermatologist who understood she was dealing with a problem child (my skin) who won’t listen to logic. She took a chance and did a clinical chemical peel—and my skin loved it! I went on the controversial isotretinoin for a few months, and emerged looking more human, less Hellboy.
On a trip to Bangkok, I picked up Shiseido’s Anessa and the viral Biore sunscreens. Sunscreens formulated with enough alcohol to fuel cocktail hour (for better absorption), these were a strict no-no, but I was tired of looking like a ghost with the zinc oxide and titanium dioxide of mineral sunscreens. Using them, unscathed, I felt the delight I imagine someone might feel on unboxing Toffee Labubu. I started cautiously using products listed with fragrance but no essential oils. I bought apricot- and peach-shaded blushes in powder, stick, liquid, and cream, and revelled in blush blindness. Rosacea made me look angry, but blush made me look ethereally angry. Subtle but important distinction. And strangely, my skin calmed down.
The villain products worked. The heroes didn’t. The “safe” stuff broke me out, and the “never-use-this-if-you-have-rosacea” products...actually helped? My dermatologists (yes, multiple) were baffled. Changing hormones in my forties haven’t helped, but now I sort of know what I have to do. The secret to skin—any skin—is understanding that it is wildly, unapologetically subjective. One size does not fit all.
Yes, I’ve bought too many products. Yes, many have ended up in the landfill, if they haven’t been donated to near and dear ones (my sister is now the proud owner of many La Mer products that bring tears to my eyes). Yes, intuition and experience may lead to waste. The good news is, we’re heading towards a future of hyper-personalised skincare. Technology is catching up with what I did manually: trial, error, skin sixth sense. Over time, we might be able to skip the endless guessing game and reduce the waste—of product, of money, of hope. What I know for now is that science doesn’t have the answer to everything. Sometimes your intuition and experience count for more.
