Alchemy of the Face
By: P Henry
Tags: Health, Skincare, Masculinity, Gender Identity

I recently finished Gabriel García Márquez’s landmark novel 100 Years of Solitude, an aptly named book for the current year, and one that contains multiple generations of sons and fathers sitting alone in the same workshop, practicing the magical art of alchemy. These men transmute lead into gold and decipher ancient hieroglyphs that foretell their family's entire lineage over the course of a century. The images of boiling flasks and magic tools of another world struck me the hardest in the mornings when I would sift through my own collection of potions and elixirs in the form of various skincare products I’ve amassed over the years. These products have transformed my face from a wasteland of acne scars into a smooth and fruitful oasis free of blemishes. This is my practice of alchemy. My personal bout of magic to start each day.

Today I practice skincare, or as I call it, an alchemy of the face. While my morning and nightly routine of washing myself has become habitual over the years, I feel compelled to experiment and discover new products with a childlike sense of glee due to a continuing subscription I have to the GQ’s Best Stuff box for MEN. As someone who does not identify as a man, it can feel somewhat off-kilter to receive a box promising an improved “men’s experience” for “shaving before that big meeting” or “taking the Jeep for a cruise on rugged terrain” which for some reason requires a soft-knit throw blanket free of charge. This past month I even received a sophisticated watch buried among oak-scented deodorant and protein powder, which I quickly regifted to my father while playing the role of “The Good Son.”

Unlike acts like growing out facial hair, receiving elite men’s grooming and lifestyle products feels more akin to the young mage sneaking out of a temple with their master's scrolls in the dead of night. An exciting breach of a world that holds itself above all others; The Boys Club. Well, I was in The Boys Club, and they could use charcoal deodorant sticks with added Magnesium for sensitivity. Those vouchers for three months of Headspace will not be lost on me, but I hope the same can be said for all of the men who were swayed by the prospect that they could be more in tune with their emotions and mental well-being. While I have escaped the ranks of masculinity from which I was designated from a young age, I have snuck back in to reap the physical benefits only to slip on a dress after applying some sea-mist aftershave to my newly smooth face.

This is all to say that I’m not trying to come off as a cynic to GQ nor it’s best stuff box, only that the regulation of skincare into gendered camps is silly to me. Saying that a product is meant for a “masculine” audience has the same position as claiming that zaatar is a “feminine” flavor when we all contain mouths that need to be fed and assholes that need to be washed. By dipping into both camps of skincare in order to find the best of the best products that work for my ever-changing body, I have become an alchemist’s creation of my own design. That bar of oat and honey soap wipes away the grime of one day and smooths my skin for the next, while that minimalistic tube of moisturizer provides a layer of gruff-protection from the elements when I go for a night on the town (or at least, for my dreams of going out, in another time). Perhaps the real magic of the GQ box was a new foundation for the relationship between my father and me, two AMABs from two different eras, each completely foreign to the other. Yet we’ve both inhabited the same workshop as a means of escape from the expectations of our daily lives, just like the characters in 100 years of solitude. While he built it for shining shoes as a means of relieving stress from his work and home lives, I repurposed it after a decade of inactivity into an art studio where I could express myself in an environment free of judgment. Like Aureliano in the novel, I am left with a handful of golden fishes, but mine is the renewed skin cells on my face and the renewed fibers of a relationship that past generations would foretell of doom.