Earlier this year, in a fit of parsimony coupled with frustration at the pursuit of beauty, I rediscovered soap. This does not mean that I have spent any time in the wilderness of grotty. I am, in truth, almost crazy about cleanliness. In a twist that owes much to ridiculous proverbs that involve deities that I don’t believe in, I’ve somehow replaced worship of supreme beings with the worship of feeling clean. I love bathing in all its forms and worship my shower like a corner of heaven. This being so, I’ve been quite the product fiend. My bathroom holds the remnants of all manner of potions and lotions, masks and scrubs, cleansers and toners, and body washes and soap-like things, but, for many years, just plain old soap did not touch my fair skin. Not, I might add, that these products make much difference. Like so many things in life, and something of which I’ve become quite well aware, skin, and its behaviour, is inherited. I had the sense to inherit well. And I know this because, quite frankly, I’ve been told so often and by so many different people that I’ve come to believe it. I have, you see, quite the nice complexion. And I realise that it’s genetic because it runs in the family and because it’s something that I achieve without effort.
And so to soap. Despite the above, the more functional part of my brain, I have bought into a rather geriatric advertising campaign in my pursuit of the perfect soap. Skin, you see, is, on the face at least, complexion and we all know what’s good for the complexion, don’t we? Oh yes, we do. I’ve gone for Pears, despite its rather odd scent, based on some old-fashioned notion of bettering my complexion. And, quite possibly, in the hope that continued use will make me look like the lovely lady with the lilies rather than a 17th century milkmaid.
Oh yes, soap will improve my complexion and melt away my figure!