On oily skin, retinal nights, and the balm that’s been in my bathroom the whole time.
Even on my worst days, there’s one thing I never skip at night.
Cicaplast. The millennial cult classic, a fresh tattoo’s best friend, and the balm that finally healed my lips after I found out I was allergic to Aquaphor. (That horror story deserves its own essay. Someday.)
Now I’m in the last year of my twenties, I’ve just started retinal, and I’m looking for the one who’ll walk me into my thirties.
The first time I squeezed it out, I thought: this is how the breakout starts. It came out so thick, so dense, so obviously not made for a face like mine.
Then I put it on. It smelled good. It felt good. It felt, frankly, like a treat.
Now I use a generous layer over my whole face, right after my retinal, and massage it in until nothing is left on the surface. Think of it the way a painter thinks of primer: the step before everything else, so whatever comes next goes on beautifully. I don’t rush it. I want it fully absorbed before the rest of my routine touches my skin.
Mornings are the part I didn’t expect. My face is soft. Not greasy, not tight, no film of leftover balm, and very little of it on my pillow.
Is it a miracle for oily skin? Let’s not get carried away. My pores are exactly as opinionated as they were before. What Cicaplast gives me is protection, not transformation. Which, technically, is exactly what it is: in the US, it’s registered as an over-the-counter skin protectant.
One last thing no one tells you: because it comes out so thick, you feel like you’re using too much. You’re not. My small tube has lasted ages.
My pores didn’t change. My skin did. It’s calmer now, softer, easier to live in.
So, the one who’ll walk me into my thirties? Turns out it’s been in my bathroom the whole time. It saved my lips. It got me through my first retinal nights. Whatever my thirties bring, I have a feeling it’ll know what to do.
