How to Wash Your Face 1. Put on music. Some days you need something to contextualize yourself.

Some days you just need a bit of ambiance to accompany the ritual- it makes you more aware of your little life (you are never more alive than when you are properly scored). Today is Nights in White Satin, which makes you feel stellar and stoned and misty-minded. You listen to it and taste cold air as the chorus wails in E Minor. 2. Take off your makeup (if youre wearing any) Youre not. You thought about it earlier, but a combination of laziness and distaste beat you to it. When you do put it on it, it has to be quick, before your mind can register objections (your brain panics a little and lapses into stammering like a toddler- no no no no, no no, why cant I see my skin, where is my skin, where is my skin, no no no no). A quick slash of kohl, a smear of nude something on the lips. Never foundation unless youre on stage - its never the right color. You confused the MAC lady for 45 minutes at fourteen as she smeared endless shades of liquid perfection across your forehead and furrowed her brow. Its like youre warm and cold at the same time Resonant stuff for a beauty counter. 3. Put your hair up You wonder about the quality of it. Tonight its just dirty enough to catch and cake at the roots- perhaps thats too much. Only you can tell. Is it thick or thin? Is it dark or light? It depends on the day. It depends on the person. It gets in the way- forever getting involved with the suds on your face; a true aggravation on the days it is clean. Your mother always told you that you have thin hair, like her. A doctor mentioned, as he took a deft, gentle hand and moved the wolfs tangle of it away from your skull with all the delicacy of an eyelash, that it was uncommonly thick. You wonder what that means about your hair. Hell, you wonder what that means about your mom. 4. Wash your skin Your favorite part of the ritual. It leaves your mind wandering as your fingers knead the cleanser that smells like malted lavender sea into your forehead (it turns your stomach a bit, youd switch it if it didnt do its job so well). You meditate on your bones, the generations it took to meld them and make them form in your skin. You feel a story emerge as you rub the prominent, high curves of your cheeks (subjects of life long spit finger swipes, people mistaking the shadows for dirt). A face that shouldnt be, if you think about it too hard - the face of a Finn and a Spaniard, with a hot touch of Swamp Yankee and a generous smack of Irish-Italian. A pedigree that leaves you confusing, much like your accent- a mid-Atlantic neutrality peppered with non-accented yalls. You feel more connected to your family when touching those bones than any other time; divorced parents like to claim parts, thats my smile your mothers eyes. When you touch those high, hard plains of your face, you know who you are and you know that you belong to no one but yourself.

5. Exfoliate your skin This has become a near obsession for you, starting when you were eight and took a pumice stone to your peach round cheek. You cannot stand any sort of drag on your flesh, any dryness, any blemish. You imagine many times over someone touching your skin and it being subpar soft. You have gotten quite inventive with your methodology over the years, from the incomparably rough (that steel wool at 13 was a major mistake) to the more strategic (your current favorite is 93% water, which you find lovely for the ingredients, not the sensation). Your goal of being a human sensory experience rests so often on the neglected senses. 6. Mask your skin

You take the rough smear of honey and banana and other sweet, bruisable ingredients and smooth it onto your face, hoping to absorb the properties. Some days this reminds you of everything you read about ritual sacrifice and consumption in school; drink the blood of the animal, the flesh of the fruit whose traits you desire and naturally lack. How very Aztec. 7. Moisturize your skin You possess an at times neurotic paranoia about becoming dry. If you were going to traipse into the realm of pseudo-psychology, it wouldnt be a stretch to say this ties into your fear of mortality, but that isnt it. It has more to do with the women in your family- at a certain age, they all get dry. Some were dry to begin with, but with the dryness comes the sadness, or maybe its the other way around. They still look young but for a few creases here and there (far less noticeable than they seem to think), but the parched pores sing a different song. My mothers side is unnatural without their dampness, so I massage coconut oil into my cheeks and hope my fathers blood takes the lead. 8. Dont touch your face This is the hardest step for you. Youve made your bed, but get no chance to lie in it (youll rumple the sheets). All you allow yourself is a quick swipe of the backs of your fingers. You remember when your best friend used to openly rub the spot just at your hairline and squeal in glee at the softness. You wish someone were around to do that now, but unfortunately this is a nighttime ritual. You settle instead for a hot washcloth over your eyes and five more uninterrupted minutes of the Moody Blues before you settle into insomnia for the night. For five uninterrupted minutes your mind is still water silent and compliant.