Skincare and Teenage Beauty - will I ever discover the secret potion?

Ugh, the spine-tingling thought of hearing - or dare say it, writing - the S word (the non-vulgar type, in case you suddenly placed the cursor on the exit button) can, if spot-related misery is dragging me to my horribly bruised knees on a particular day, provoke a tantrum-starting scream to awake my family from their beds, if not the whole of the party-wearing neighbourhood.

So, I guess that I'll save you the agony of awaiting for the explanation of my idea of the shriek-inducing, horrifying S word - skincare. For some, taking care of their skin is as simple as making a cup of (smelly) tea; they needn't think twice of moisturizing their face and slabbing on tons of products, without a hint of fear rising above the surface and firmly planting itself in the back of your mind. Why the fear, you ask? A jar of trustworthy Nivea cream is hardly on a par with a bloodcurdling scene featured in horror/sci-fi classic Alien, despite the latter barely creating a stir of frightful emotions from my cowering form, tightly squeezed into a Chihuahua-tiny ball in the comfort of the welcoming sofa. Perhaps I ought to avoid that subject for the time being, then.

What I intend to describe is that, unlike a lucky couple whose stars certainly look in their overly fortunate favours, I seriously cannot afford - both in terms of money and safety - to walk into an overcrowded beauty shop and pick up as many creams, gels or designer-themed skincare products without taking the possible consequences - such as a reaction, typically in the form of soul-destroying, esteem-lowering spots popping up around my unsmiling, grim-looking face, whilst my complexion slowly turns the embarrassing shade of Santa Claus's red coat - into thought-provoking consideration. One use of a new gel or soap can prove that anything can happen - and the results, to my bitter-as-a-lemon disappointment, do not always favour my oilier-than-focaccia-bread skin, which then leads to yet more rounds of trial-and-testing - a far more arduous assignment than appearing as a mascara-streaking, emotional crybaby contestant on the overly commercialized pantomime otherwise known as The X Factor.

There is no cure for my problematic skin, which behaves just as normally as you would expect from a maturing adolescent: what else would an adult with a complexion as clear as pure, fluffy-like-whipped-cream clouds expect? Maybe I've grown to believe certain things which don't necessarily exist in a modern culture such as our own, but I expected more than my teenage years  - which, I hasten to add, will only be lived and enjoyed once - to be riddled with endless breakouts across my redder-than-Christina-Aguilera-lipstick chin, which dramatically contrasts with my natural, pretty-as-a-lily skin tone; now my heart miserably wishes that I left the Twilight-pale look until the 'spotty' phase had reached an eventual end, though sunbathing in the oh-so-detested sunshine for hours on end sounds more sickening to being obliged to watch a whole Chelsea match on a sport-packed weekend. Even the sight of Fernando Torres' (lack of) hair this season seems highly appealing in comparison to burning my skin and opening a whole new can of (unwanted) worms, alongside my spot-centred problems.

Do I ever stop complaining about, well, anything, I sometimes happen to ask myself. Hearing my Royal Family-inspired British accent every so often can create an incurable bout of annoyance, whilst reading my exceedingly over-usage of hard-hitting adjectives and expressions becomes a tedious job which I would hasten to avoid within a heartbeat; why, why, why do my spots spur me on to write about the trouble it has needlessly brought? No matter how gently I cleanse my face in both the lazily brightening morning and darker-than-Bournville night, my face - the whole oval, fringe-ready shape of it - always gives the impression of being angrier than my brother when Chelsea unfortunately lose a match, terribly more so against a hot-headed rival. And when I do allow my blood to boil dangerously and turn me into a preferably-avoided, wild version of myself, my sudden rage is usually due to united couples of spots decorating my chin or forehead - a.k.a The T Zone (have you ever realized how many negative words begin with T? Tedious, terrible, terrifying...) - albeit less neatly like a pot filled with pretty, spring-coloured flowers.

Over the past few years since spots began to become a more regular occurrence and rudely butt itself into my otherwise happy-go-lucky lifestyle, all options which were once open to me have impolitely slammed their doors onto the tip of my reddening nose: in a drastic attempt to get to the impossible-to-discover root of the expanding problem, earlier this year I cut out ordinary milk from my diet and consumed dairy-free almond milk for several weeks, whilst eagerly anticipating a dramatic improvement in my skin. The miracle wonder, sadly, never arrived: in fact, I believed that my face looked worse for avoiding lactose on purpose, though the sudden surge in temperatures may have played in a leading role with my worsening complexion.

At the moment, I currently take one zinc tablet - which, from doctors to countless websites, have been praised for helping spot-prone skin and clearing the problem up - and multivitamins every morning, as it has been the case for several months. Since I came across surveys where zinc was listed as a leading factor in encouraging skin to return to normal back in the summer, my fingers are tightly crossed that I will begin to notice self-satisfying results within a while. Although I openly complain (and get on other people's nerves for doing it) about my havoc-causing skin, I can stand with my head held high thanks to the fact that I have not been placed with the heart-breaking burden of suffering from acne because my so-called 'problem areas' only persist around my chin, which, at the beginning of the year, was virtually flawless without so much as a single mark. On one more positive note, my forehead has taken a turn in terms of improvement and looks far greater than it previously did for years - how can I dare to complain about that?

The answer, which unfortunately is the only one I can hand over with confidence, is to keep my skincare as simple as Alekandr Orlov's 'simples' adverts: as my body attempts to handle the over-creation of oil, placing tons of unnatural creams and 'miracle' gels will not give me the look I pray each night to have. Waking up with a complexion (and body) of a famous celebrity does not happen or at least not within a few hours of going to bed, anyway.

Witch hazel has long claimed the throne as the oily/combination skin saver queen, which helps bring big-and-mighty spots to the surface and gently cleans the skin, too - a more meaningful and appreciated present than a lip-shaped Lulu Guinness bag (but who said that I was entitled to having both?). A nightly foam wash and twice weekly scrub containing the prized witch hazel equates to the best skin that I can possibly get at this time - without dedicating myself to daily lessons in understanding the crazy science associated with oil-producing skin, I doubt that I can strip my skincare routine any further as I have done as much as I can.

Thank God that these problems - the ones that every teenager across the world dreads with a heavy heart - are not destined to last the rest of my life - a few, terrifyingly extended years are more than long enough!