Body of Evidence

As a woman of a certain age, I need glasses to see detail. I don’t wear them to look in the mirror, the better to admire my youthful, unwrinkled complexion. Stop laughing.

This is why it took some time to realize I had a rash around my eyes. When it grew angrier and started itching like mad, I knew something was awry. Quick on the uptake, as ever.

I felt a familiar dread—this was not the first time my face had thrown a tantrum. Years earlier I developed large red welts, horrible itchy things that had me clawing at my face in my sleep and trying not to scratch myself to smithereens when awake.

The dermatologist who examined me prescribed a specific cleanser, moisturizer, and sunscreen. Then she said I must give up hot showers and red wine—and life as I knew it was over.

For months I stuck to the regimen, using only the specified items, bitterly complaining during my lukewarm showers, and tenderly stroking bottles of Château Gigognan Côtes du Rhône while the store owner eyed me nervously.

Months passed and my face grew increasingly inflamed, yet at review appointments the specialist only repeated her prescription. And I, ever ready to trust anyone but myself, kept complying.

Then, after ten months of being depressed, itchy, and quite possibly bubonic, I poured out my misery on Facebook. A friend working for a dermatologist whom he regarded highly finagled me an appointment for the next day.

The new doctor affixed twenty patches to my back and instructed me to not sweat or shower for three days. I know! At this point though, I would have tried anything.

When I returned, she removed the patches and examined the skin below. It turned out I had three severe allergies.

The first was to nickel. That figured, as I’ve only ever been able to wear gold jewelry—quel dommage! The second I’ve forgotten; I probably should have kept a record of that. The third was to the preservatives methylisothiazolinone (MI) and its nasty sibling methylchloroisothiazolinone (MCI). I looked at the long words, baffled. I’d never heard of them.

But she was already searching her database for the only three products I’d been using for ten torturous months. And, you guessed it, the sunscreen contained MI.

Even after I stopped using that product, it took years for my skin to fully recover. Applying the offending ingredient day after day for so long had caused my epidermis to go into a kind of unhinged freakout (not the medical term). I had grown so sensitized to MI and MCI that the tiniest exposure caused a rash lasting two months. If part of my body got exposed, the original welts also reappeared on my face, like little urticarial phantasms. And I reacted to anything new, even if I wasn’t actually allergic to it.

To complicate things, MI and MCI are everywhere. In nearly all face and baby wipes (baby wipes!), many sunscreens, numerous shampoos, countless antibacterial products, most dishwashing liquids, and every single supermarket laundry detergent. I spent weeks researching ingredients to find options and suppliers I could use.

Over time, things settled. My skin regained her equanimity.

Then recently—finally—I thought perhaps I could try some new skincare. I avoided seeing my face in focus; it was harder to avoid seeing all the anti-aging ads targeted at me.

I queried an AI to find a highly regarded Australian brand emphasizing sustainability and natural ingredients—with no MI or MCI. One that would help my skin age well, whatever that means.

When I discovered this new rash, I was confounded. I had asked an expert, arguably the most sophisticated intelligence available, and all I got was papules.

Further dermatologist visits and Gemini conversations revealed my skin disliked all the lovely, high-quality botanicals.

I’ll be honest. When I used those products, or anything claiming more than the pathetically inadequate acts of cleansing and moisturizing, my skin got cranky. They triggered irritation and dryness and, I now realize, fueled melasma. Which required more concoctions to calm the upset and treat the pigmentation. It was a conga line of solutions. No wonder the beauty industry makes so much money.

So what did I do? I put myself on a skin diet. Nothing but micellar oil to cleanse, Vaseline to moisturize, physical sunscreen to protect.

It took a few months, but my skin began to unclench. Slowly, the tantrum subsided.

After all that expertise, the answer for me now* is a splash of warm water, La Roche Posay Sensitive Riche Cream, and Avocado Zinc Sunscreen; and at night, La Roche Posay Toleriane Cream Cleanser followed by La Roche Posay Sensitive Riche Cream with a few drops of Inika Bakuchiol Serum mixed in. If I’ve applied any eye makeup that day, I first use La Roche Posay Respectissime Waterproof Eye Makeup Remover.

That’s a total of five products. Minimal, simple, comfortable.

Social media told me I needed a whole apothecary of potions—then more. A dermatologist prescribed a protocol that made things worse and I obeyed anyway. AI answered a question I hadn’t properly asked.

Maybe if I’d worn glasses to begin with I’d have seen wrinkles—but also what was right before my eyes. My skin always knew what she needed.

*I updated this paragraph on 11 July 2026.