Spots. They’re gross and a pain in the butt (or chin)… but also weirdly satisfying and interesting, right? I’ve known and loved/hated many spots in my life, but here are the five that have stayed with me the most.
When I was 11, my mum took me into the bathroom and explained to me that the little black dots I had sprouted on my chin were called “blackheads” and that I could get rid of them by using the apricot facial scrub she pressed into my hand. I hadn’t even noticed that I had them, to be honest, but after my mum told me that they were there I became obsessed with getting rid of them. The week after, I scrubbed my face so hard to get rid of those pesky blackheads that I took off several layers of skin and ended up with an enormous angry scab instead of a chin. I had to tell everyone at school that I’d tripped over and grazed it on the pavement. The blackheads were preferable, tbh.
The under-the-skin one
I had a spot under my right eyebrow which lasted for three years. It wasn’t red and you couldn’t really see it because I had #eyebrowgoals before eyebrow goals were a thing, but there was definitely a lump there and it hurt like hell and I was convinced that if I just squeezed it the right way then all the goo I could feel moving about under the skin would burst out in sweet, disgusting glory. It never did, and one day the spot just wasn’t there any more. I still mourn the wonderful spotsplosion that could have been.
The one that had just been a bit of nacho
I was on a group trip to the cinema with loads of people, including my crush. I was sat opposite her and trying to impress her with my knowledge of Doctor Who trivia (don’t diss it, my best relationships have sprung from my encyclopaedic knowledge of Tumblr’s ‘geek’ tag) when my best friend leant forward and said “you’ve got a bit of food on your cheek.” I tried to brush it off and got a sinking feeling as I realised what she was referring to. “Oh, cool, thanks” I said, signally desperately with my eyes that I wanted her to drop it. “No, it’s still there!” she insisted. I eventually had to admit, with my crush and most of the rest of the table listening, that actually it was a spot I’d unsuccessfully tried to cover with concealer that didn’t quite match my foundation. Ground, swallow me up.
New Year’s Eve when I was 15 was a quiet affair. I was home with my parents and my dogs, hanging around in my bedroom on my own until midnight struck, when I decided to try a new hairstyle. I pushed back my fringe and there was THE BIGGEST SPOT IN THE WORLD underneath it. It was a good 2cm tall, with a bright yellow tip, an almost neon-orange middle bit, and a red bottom section. It was glorious. A tiny pus-filled volcano. I almost fell off the chair in my haste to squeeze it, and when I did it exploded with such force it hit the mirror. Nothing – not first kisses, not chocolate brownies, not particularly good series finales – has ever given me as much pleasure as squeezing that spot did.
The one that wasn’t even mine
Apart from this. My best friend admitted that she had a really painful spot that her bra strap was rubbing on but she couldn’t quite reach herself to pop and asked me if I’d get it for her. She lay down on her bed and I set to attacking it with the my blemish wand. It was a raised, painful lump of a spot and I couldn’t quite figure out how to squeeze anything out of it, until I lightly touched it from a different angle and the whole thing erupted with such force that it hit me in the face. The rest of the monster emptied easily after that, and my friend felt much better.
And you know, can you really count someone as a friend unless you’ve had their spot stuffing all over your forehead? I don’t think so, dude. I really don’t think so.
Image: Getty / adapted