Himself's mammy was over visiting us in The London a couple of weeks ago, and after she departed I noticed a great big gaping hole in my skincare regime.
My beloved little tube of La Roche-Posay Cicaplast (around €13) was nowhere to be found. It was as though it had vanished into thin air.
Or, y'know, a suitcase.
It didn't take too much sitting around with a pipe and deerhunter to realise what had happened, and it was my own stupid fault. In practically the same breath that I insisted Himself's mam take home a nearly new bottle of foundation that was miles too dark for my glow-in-the-dark phizog, I'd enthused/raved at length about Cicaplast and its wondrous ability to soothe and protect even very seriously irritated skin. I produced it for her to try, and never mentioned needing it back.
Feck.
Advertised
Cicaplast, in case you're wondering what all the fuss is about, is a hydrating, soothing pro-recovery fluid gel that's indicated for the treatment of flaking, chapped skin. It's used to aid the recovery of skin that has undergone a cosmetic peel, since it contains active ingredients to stimulate the production and organisation of new cells while preventing the adhesion of bacteria and acting as a protective barrier.
I know of a beauty editor or three who swears by this stuff for cold sores, but I love it because it is the only thing other than steroid creams that can relieve the itchiness and tightness that accompanies a bout of eczema, in my experience, and as it's non-comedogenic it doesn't leave my face a spotty mess when I need to deploy it on my forehead. I only wish I'd known about it around the time of that DIY face mask.
Anyway, the good news is that Himself's ma is now a convert to Cicaplast. And that I probably won't press charges since I've procured a fresh tube for myself.
Probably.
