I Lived It: My Boyfriend Has a Blackhead I Can't Pop

A story of survival

TW: Skin picking

Before you say it, I know.

Don’t pick.

CosmoGirl warned me about leaving marks, scars, redness. But it was too late. I’d already found comfort in leaning over my sink, elbows propped in front of the mirror, fingernails pushing at the sides of my nose, amazed and satisfied with the gunk that zipped out.

Listen, I wish I didn’t care.

It would save me a lot of time if I didn’t feel the need to examine every pore on my face after each shower. CosmoGirl cautioned against pimple popping, but also taught me that hot water causes pores to open — why would they do that? Why tell me not to open the door but then hand me the key?

When I run out of suspicious-looking bumps to press on my face, I turn to the rest of my body: ingrown hairs on my legs, a scab on my arm, the tops of my shoulders. Eventually, my fingers turn on each other and pick each nail down to the nub.

It’s … relaxing.

The habit doesn’t hurt anyone besides my future self, but I’m banking on her being able to afford weekly laser facials or a skin transplant.

It’s been a victimless crime.

Until.

I notice my boyfriend’s blackhead.

It’s in the valley between his nose and his cheek — a place I have no problem tearing apart on my own face. After years of living in Alaska and then Seattle, his skin looks as pure as a porcelain doll’s, not a blemish in sight. Except for this one itty bitty clogged pore. It would just take a second. One big squeeze.

But that could be painful for someone who hasn’t been scratching, peeling, exfoliating for three decades.

So I offer him a relaxing facial.

A little calming lavender essence, a warm washcloth, a gentle moisturizing mask.

He’s being a good sport. I can’t wait to show him what I’ll excavate from his nose.

Like a proper youtube doctor, I use q-tips. It’s so frustrating. If my fingernails were in charge, we’d be done in seconds. But I don’t want to draw blood.

“Ouch,” he says, almost immediately. “Can we be done with this part?”

The spot is barely red. I’ve barely pushed; the gunk hasn’t moved at all.

It’s okay, it’s okay. He’s an innocent, just let him go.

Despite my meddling, his skin glows after he rinses all the goos off. “Where did you learn all this stuff?” he asks, gesturing to the products I have lined up on the living room table.

“Magazines.” The same magazines that told me I needed a rock-hard body, that I needed to learn how to flirt, learn to kiss, learn to text; that I could make guys like me if I just tried hard enough. Sexy shoes, sexy hair, sexy summer. Make him crazy, make him yours.

I started reading CosmoGirl when I was, what, twelve? A few years later, I graduated to big girl Cosmo, where men wrote advice columns on how to give blow jobs and how their past girlfriends managed to not be annoying. I’m going to make a sweeping generalization here, but guys my age didn’t have anything like that. They weren’t taking quizzes on whether or not they were good kissers or if they were too much of a teacher’s pet. Of course, they had insecurities and societal pressures, but they weren’t sent a guide on how to pick at themselves (no, don’t pick, you’ll leave marks) every month in the mail.

We make popcorn and sit on the couch together. When it’s time for bed, we brush our teeth, and I avoid looking in the mirror.

Maybe if I didn’t pick at myself so much, I’d want to pick at other people less.

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