The shine you were taught to be ashamed of
By noon your face is gleaming. You press a tissue to your forehead and hold it up to the light. The translucent patch it leaves behind feels like evidence of something gone wrong, a body misbehaving in public. You reach for the powder. You reach for the blotting paper. You have been reaching for them since the first time someone handed you a mirror and said, you have oily skin, as if they were delivering a diagnosis.
