To remove, start from the top and peel the mask in a downward motion.
I put the tube down. Right. It might be a bit more stubborn, as it’s now cement, but I draw a breath of air and hope for the best. I reach up to my forehead and try to roll the mask between my index finger and thumb to start the peel.
It’s not even budging a teeny, tiny bit.
Okay. Perhaps I’m going to have to get my nails under it and start with a scrape. I get a bit of a lift, so I try to pull it down.
OH MY CHRIST.
I shriek with pain and drop my hand. I feel like I’m not peeling off my mask, but my own skin! I draw a breath of air and try again, yanking the charcoal mask down, and a sharp, burning pain rips across my forehead.
This is not going to come off.
Panic begins to set in. I try again, biting down so hard on my lip, I taste blood, and a bit of the mask comes off.
It’s the size of a penny.
And the small bit of skin that is revealed? It’s angry and red.
I curse myself with every horrible name I can think of under the sun. Why did I buy this? Why did I think my pores needed reducing? How bloody stupid am I? This is going to be agony to get off.
If I can get it off.
At this rate, I’ll be up past two in the morning, torturing myself. Ripping off penny-sized pieces at a time and crying between each tug downwards as I not only tear off the mask, but my skin, too.
No. This won’t do. I retrieve a flannel and turn on the hot-water tap. I let the water run for a moment, then I soak the flannel, wringing it out, and begin scrubbing my face. Oh, God, this hurts, too! I have to be aggressive to get it to dissolve, and once my skin begins to resurface, I’m nearly in tears from what I see.
Angry, furious, bright-red skin.
By the time that horrible charcoal mask is washed down the drain, I barely recognise myself in the mirror. Oh, Lord, I look hideous. Worse than sunburn, because my angry skin is in a mask shape on my face. Why did I do this? Why? Why?
I wring out my flannel and hang it up. I know my skin needs some moisturiser, so I apply my nightly facial cream. It causes a stinging so bad, I pump my feet up and down on the floor like I’m Camden Tremblay warming up on the pitch. Ouch, ouch, ouch, my face is on fire!
I’m so defeated and angry at myself. I’m going to look ridiculous tomorrow. Not just for work, but when I see Xander, too.
I cringe at the thought.
I sigh heavily in defeat. I’m going to go downstairs, get my phone, and try to forget my face is on fire so I can maybe, possibly, get a few hours of sleep.
If I’m lucky.
For a moment, I think of Lady India. She would never do something to jeopardise her skin like this. No. She probably has regular facials at some uber posh salon in Belgravia or Kensington with experts who would never apply crap ordered from social media on her flawless skin. She’s smarter than that.
A wave of uncertainty rises within me as I think that is only one way I’m not like India. She’s refined and perfect and is exactly what the papers want as far as the story of a prince falling for an elegant, sophisticated, aristocratic English beauty. India knows how to navigate this royal world, as she has run in these elite circles her entire life.
I remember the pictures of India and Xander when they were together. How they were such a glamorous, beautiful couple. How they were in the royal watch columns, spotted having intimate dinners at elite restaurants in Mayfair. I remember her immaculate and cutting-edge outfits as she walked with her hand in his.
Lord. The press would have a field day with the working girl from Wales and her botched skin treatment, wouldn’t they?
I cringe. I would embarrass him if I went out like this and people knew we were dating. I can only imagine the awful headlines that would accompany it. With Lady India, they breezily described her high-fashion choices and shiny hair. With me? I shudder. I don’t even want to think about that.