I remember the first time I looked in the mirror and decided I hated my face.
I was 12-years-old, and the house was filled with the crazy mixture of chaos, excitement and despair that engulfed our home every morning as soon as my mum attempted to get the four of us out the door and off to school.
But hidden away in the bathroom, I was dealing with much bigger issues than grabbing my lunch box off the table or making sure my little sister had her school hat. Instead, I was staring into the mirror with such intensity that to the untrained eye it must have looked like I was about to start chanting for Bloody Mary.
My skin was blotchy, with patches of red standing out spectacularly against the pasty backdrop that was my face. Unfortunately, most of the scarlet hues had decided to gather around my nose region (must have had premo parking) and I was sporting a look only Rudolf could pull off.
So, in desperation, I snuck into my mum’s room and rifled through her dressing table until I came across some pressed powder that was three shades darker than my face, but even back then I knew beggars can’t be choosers.
I quickly pounded the powder puff across my face and was instantly impressed with how the redness suddenly vanished, it was like I’d used up my one wish and my face was instantly hidden from the world.