I don’t do this every night. Sometimes I forget. Or can’t be arsed. Or the towel smells weird and I bail.
But when I do — when I actually set five, ten minutes aside — my skin thanks me by not freaking out the next morning. And I remember I have a face. A real one. Not just the blurry one in Zoom squares or car mirrors.
It’s not a routine, really. Just a few quiet things that feel better than scrolling.
Flannel First
Hot tap. Not kettle. Grab the clean one, if there is one. Hold it under the water, wring it out, press it to your face. No rubbing. No dragging. Just… hold.
That moment? That’s most of it.
I stand there like that. Breathing slower. Letting the heat undo whatever I’ve been clenching all day. Sometimes I add a drop of oil — rosemary, eucalyptus, whatever’s open. Sometimes I don’t.
Clean, Gently
Whatever’s near. Oat milk. Balm. Cleanser in a tube with a cracked lid. Doesn’t matter.
Massage it in slowly. Chin up, fingers soft. No rush. The slower I go, the more I realise how fast I usually am. Even when I think I’m not.
Don’t rinse yet. Let it sit. Let your skin catch up.
Steam, If You’re In the Mood
Bowl. Hot water. Maybe herbs — if you’ve got them, if you care. I don’t always. Some nights it’s just steam and silence and my shoulders slowly unshrugging.
Lean in. Not too close. It’s not a punishment. Just hover. Close your eyes if you trust yourself not to dip in nose-first.
Stay until you’ve had enough. Don’t time it. You’ll know.
Mask or Meh
Clay if I feel grimy. Honey if I feel dry. Sometimes I mix stuff in a ramekin like I’m on some cooking show. Other nights? Nothing. That’s fine too.
But when I do mask — I let it sit while I lie down and stare at the ceiling. Once I cried. Once I laughed. Once I genuinely forgot I was masking and went to answer the door.
Whatever happens, rinse gently. Don’t scrub. Not tonight.
End With Hands
Oil. Cream. Both? Use what feels good. Don’t overthink it. You’re not performing.
Press your palms into your face. Let them rest there. Breathe out through your nose and see what your chest does. Mine usually drops about an inch, like it’s been holding something it didn’t need to.
That’s the bit I never skip.
Not a Ritual, Not a Hack
There’s no glow guarantee. No “five steps to perfect skin.” Some nights I wake up blotchy anyway. But the nights I do this — even part of it — I sleep better. Not always longer. Just deeper.
It’s not about skincare. Not really. It’s about claiming ten minutes from a day that tried to take all of them.
No music, no mirror, no brand telling me I’m doing it wrong.
Just me. And my face. And a warm flannel. That’s it.