Welcome to the first installment of Little Magic, a new monthly column that explores the mysterious forces in our everyday lives. Look for Little Magic in the Baltimore Fishbowl on the fourth Wednesday of the month.
I was always dubious when people told me I had beautiful skin, as they sometimes did in my twenties and thirties. As a teen, I faced off with the enemy in front of a medicine cabinet with mirrors like sliding glass doors. Behind the sliders, I kept an arsenal of witchy potions: pHisoHex, Stridex pads, Benzoyl Peroxide, Witch Hazel. I could never square my angsty, blemish-worrying self with the apocryphal advertising girl others seemed to see. If I had a dime for every time, someone said I looked like the Ivory Snow girl back then, I could have bought a chocolate bar.