It started with a foot mask.
You know, one of those things everyone on “instar-gam” was crazy about for a second. The funky little plastic booties that you wear for like an hour and it soaks your feet in weird acids or something and then you peel and have a “brand new set of skin.” That was the wording on the package of the “Born Anew” foot mask I got as a stocking stuffer for last year’s Christmas, anyway. I was 98% certain it was some kind of knockoff brand.
I’d been noticing some major calluses on my feet for some time, but I decided I couldn’t ignore it anymore when I saw that I had been snagging my bedsheets and tearing them slightly. Disgusting, I know. I’m very self-conscious about the state of my skin in general, and there was no way I was going to go get a pedicure and subject some poor person to having to deal with the monstrosity that was my foot skin.
So, after fighting with the stubby pieces of “tape” they give you to close up the booties, I sat there for an hour and soaked my feet in this mystery liquid. I followed all of the instructions about washing your feet before and after the soak. I will admit that I did not follow the instructions about soaking and moisturizing your feet every day after, but in my defense: I forgot.
In the days following the soak, the skin on my feet was not happy. I started wondering if maybe doing the foot mask was a mistake. My feet started to feel tight, like the skin had lost some of its elasticity and began to harden. The color of my foot skin changed. I couldn’t tell if it was trapping dirt in the crevices which refused to wash out or if it was no longer being supplied with blood the way it used to be. It looked darker. Not like when I’ve been in the sun and the skin tans and glows a bit, No, this color looked… dead.
I did my best to ignore my discomfort and tried to be patient. The box said “3–7” days before it would start to peel. It was day 7 exactly when I started seeing a little bit of flaking, but nothing like the advertisements. I figured it was just a ripoff product until a couple days later.
I was taking a shower and I felt myself stepping on something. I thought it was a piece of soap and tried to shuffle it off toward the drain. But no matter what, I kept stepping down on something foreign. Finally I looked down at the arch of my foot and saw a puckered white ring of peeling skin. I was surprised and elated. I guessed that it wasn’t a ripoff after all.
I know that you’re not supposed to actively peel at the skin. The instructions on the box said it. The internet said it. My mother said it. But I’ve got a scar on my knee that’s as much from the fall I had as it was from the fact that I was 10 years old and couldn’t resist picking at it as it healed. Here I am, over two decades later, and I have learned nothing. I know it’s gross, but I was excited to sit down and start pulling at that skin.
The skin rolled off of the foot easily. It was thicker and drier than I expected it to be. It peeled away in chunks. As I pulled, I started trying to get larger and larger chunks off at a time. When the piece I was tugging at finally separated from the rest of the foot, the skin would curl into itself. I piled it all in one spot in the carpet, vacuum ready to go. As the darkened tight skin lifted, I could see bright pink lively flesh underneath. I was fascinated by the way the skin painlessly came off, almost as if it was never really connected to me to begin with.
One of the particularly callused parts of my foot was the heel. I got to work on the heel, digging into it with my nails, trying to find purchase on some corner of skin so I could free my heel from the tightened crust. Finally, I broke through and managed to pull a large square-ish section off. I saw it start to narrow, but instead of breaking off at my foot, the thin strip of skin traveled up the folds of the back of my foot and past my ankle.
I gasped and stopped pulling, anticipating pain. Or blood. Neither came.
Gingerly, I started pulling again. The thin strip of skin continued traveling up, over my calf, past my knee, and to the back of my thigh. My hands trembled from excitement as I slowly worked my fingertips underneath the flaps of skin on either side of my calf. Slowly, I pushed my fingers in and could hear the thick shhhhlck of my skin separating from the rest of me. My heartbeat quickened as I pulled the skin off the lower part of my leg.
The flesh underneath was pink and wet and glossy. But there was no pain, and no blood. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I should have been revolted.
But I was ecstatic.
My hands moved almost robotically. I felt frantic even though I was working slowly to peel the skin off of my knee, then my thigh. My entire left leg was naked in the truest sense. Barely even thinking anymore, I began pulling at the skin on my other foot and leg. As I worked, I kept waiting for my nerves to be engulfed in pain or for blood to gush forward from the openings in my skin. It never happened.
As I moved to my torso, I struggled to place what I was uncovering. Not quite sinew, but not dermis either. It was certainly alive and smooth. I felt that it was gorgeous. A deeper hue of pink than I ever thought I’d see on my own body, it was slick with a moisture that I had not known before.
Every imperfection lifted off of me as I pulled. Every artifact that was wrong: scars, birthmarks, stretchmarks, unsightly freckles. My bellybutton that I always hated, gone, not even a dimple left to commemorate it. My mismatched nipples that always gave me such anxiety during every hookup I’d ever had, no more. In chunks on the floor next to the vacuum.
I kept pulling with almost a rabid intensity, itching to have it all off of me. My arms were next, working the skin up over my shoulders and down to my elbows. God these elbows. Trouble until the end, with all of the wrinkles catching as I pulled at them. I won in the end, revealing only smooth, wet, glory. The wrists were easier.
I was working at my left thumb when I hit the nail. A wet crackle sounded off as the nail separated from my thumb. I should have been horrified. I was relieved. I stopped to pull off each nail, reveling in the crunching noise as each one popped off. Soon both of my hands were free.
My back was easier than I thought it would be. I just had to go slow, like peeling the price sticker off of a gift for a loved one. I felt it disconnect from the rest of my skin at the base of my neck. As I tossed it to the ground, I caught sight of the ill-conceived tattoo I got for my 18th birthday. I was glad to be rid of it.
The skin around my neck slid off easily once I decided to pretend like I was taking off a collar. It sounded like the removal of a wetsuit post-dive. Every sucking sound followed by that wet pop made my heart skip a beat. I was so close.
My scalp peeled off neatly in pieces, like a hairy clementine revealing the juicy flesh underneath. My long tresses were one of the only things I liked about myself. I thought I would have mourned them more, but as I felt the smooth contour of my skull, I couldn’t care less about my discarded mane.
I ran into trouble at my ears. Caught in the fervor of this new self-discovery, I’d neglected to remove my earrings. My skin caught on them. In a fit of impatience, I ripped the jewelry through my lobes. There was a tearing sound followed by the unmistakable crunch of cartilage tearing. I still felt no pain. I expected to feel the warmth of blood cascading down my shoulders, but there was none. Only the comforting dewiness of my new self. A giggle escaped my lips.
My lips! I probably should have saved them for last, but in my excitement, I decided to jump to my mouth after the trouble with my ears. Finding that one ever-healing split in my bottom lip, I tore in with my teeth, pulling in the other direction with my fingers. I felt the split widen as though I’d been dehydrated for a week. Carefully, I pulled the thin membrane off my lips, and it too joined the pile on the floor.
From my mouth I pulled the skin down and away from my chin, then used that space to free my cheeks. The skin ripped before I could reach my bottom eyelid. “It’s fine,” I thought, “I’ll do those later.”
Very carefully, starting with the skin covering the septum, I separated the skin covering my nose. This awful acne-ridden place couldn’t have been gone from my face fast enough. I was surprised to find much of the cartilage stayed intact. From there, I removed my eyebrows, the damned things that never seemed even. My forehead slid off easily, considering that it was already peeling on its own from where my scalp detached.
Finally, I had only my eyelids. Like a stage performer removing their false eyelashes at the end of a show, I calmly pulled them off and tossed them on top of the pile. I was done.
I looked at the pile of skin on the floor. Everything ugly was gone. It was GONE. I could throw it away, bury it, burn it, WHATEVER. It didn’t matter what I did with it because it was no longer part of me. It was a collection of dead cells that I never had to think about again.
I looked down at myself. My radiant pink form glistened, free of any blemish, cool and damp. I am glistening! I shine! And now I can’t stop looking at myself in the mirror. I try to hold back the tears, but a sob of happiness erupts from my mouth. All I can think is, I’m free, I’m so beautiful and I’m free.
