How St. Ives's Apricot Scrub Plays on People's Shame

I bought into the St. Ives lie for years. In the already insecure times of high school and college, my skin was host to constant colonies of acne, my nose peppered with blackheads, my chin and forehead a topographical horror of cystic zits that lasted for weeks. But as I moved into adulthood, it didn’t go away, making me, I suppose, part of a trend—adult acne is on the rise, particularly among women.

I’m sure it never really seemed so bad to others as it did to me, as is the way with these things. I covered