Scarface
I never used to care that much about my appearance. It was the last thing on an extensive list of priorities I had.
I was always clean and smart, and I thought that was enough.
Then I got to university and was surrounded by other young women with makeup, fashion, and style superior to my own. It was hard not to start feeling self-conscious to some degree.
Suddenly I started to want to look nice.
However, within weeks of starting my first year of university I got acne on my face, and it would not go away. It cannot be stressed enough how severe and bad my acne was and how visible.
My whole face was covered with spots of all shapes and sizes overlapping each other and creating a mess.
I tried spot dots, a fancy new skin care routine and a variety of changes to my lifestyle. Nothing seemed to help, it just got worse. My face was a mess — makeup would not fix it only slightly conceal it.
My face hurt — it felt raw, vulnerable, and so did I. I saw my university friends meet partners, go to events, and thrive whilst I felt hideous. I refrained from buying myself nice clothes — what was the point when my face looked like that?
I had been trying to get support from my GP about my skin. I had tried antibiotics which hadn’t helped, tried the pill in case it was linked to hormones and then been told by a male nurse that my acne “will likely leave once you reach menopause” — not the most reassuring thing for a 20-year-old to hear.
When I was told about the four-year hospital waiting time for a dermatologist, brought on by the backlog of cancer patients still needing to be seen from the pandemic — I became resigned to wait.
But that all changed when in my first week of second year the reality of my situation hit me as I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I looked a mess. I looked sore and I didn’t look like myself. The acne felt like the only thing definitive about me. I was not supposed to look like this.
I decided to go private and made an appointment with a private hospital in Edinburgh to see a dermatologist. Within a matter of days, I had not only heard back but was at the appointment. As soon as I’d finished describing the situation, I informed him immediately that I wanted to go on Accutane (official name Isotretinoin).
This was the nuclear option, the sign-a-waiver option, the option that is a last resort for the severest type of acne — the option my dermatologist told me he would recommend to his daughter if she looked like me.
I started taking Isotretinoin on Friday the 11th of October 2024 and took my final dose on Tuesday the 19th of August 2025. I went from a 20mg daily tablet to then taking 60mg daily and then finally back to 20mg as I finished my prescription off at the end.
Get Lucy Hall’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
It was brutal, my nose was always bloody, my lips were chapped and the corner of my mouth looked akin to Heath Ledger’s Joker in The Dark Knight.
My face erupted in acne more so than ever before and my tastebuds were numbed. My long dark hair was damaged and so dry that a hairdresser feared that it would break from even touching it.
I was in a lot of pain, and I looked dreadful but, I stuck with it.
As I was not going through the NHS, I had to fund the appointments and medication myself using the money I had saved up working as a waitress.
The dermatology consultations and appointments over the course of the six or so months was around £1138. The total spent on the pills themselves was around £572.44.
So, a large chunk of the money I had saved working ten-hour shifts during the summer was gone but by the end of the treatment — so was my acne.
My face is smooth and soft to touch, with not a single whitehead, blackhead or spot.
The downside is that I have been left with scars.
My skin has had constant and considerable acne for months and months and then it has been blasted with the strongest possible method of acne removal and all that’s visible now is the aftermath.
I am no longer in pain and my body without Isotretinoin is already practically back to normal.
But, for so long the goal was to finish the treatment and now that I am done and have watched my appearance and face change dramatically over the course of about two years — I do not know how to feel about the way I look.
Acne isn’t sexy, it’s not some glamourous ailment that old Hollywood movies would romanticise. It destroys your confidence and self-esteem. It is painful and embarrassing and so I see my scars as such.
I was even referred to a charity that deal with disfigurement and visible differences. I was recommended facial camouflage and whilst I attended an appointment — I never followed up with the camouflage, focussing instead on covering the scars with more budget friendly and more practical makeup.
It has been hard recently to accept my scars and now that I no longer have acne - I can’t seem to cope with not hating some aspect about my appearance and I’m not sure if this is just an aspect of being a young woman or, if it’s to do being a girl with scars who could not recognise herself a few months ago.
I may not be used to my face, but I am putting my foot down.
I’ve become desperate for reassurance of my appearance. Reassurance that I am attractive or pretty — that I’m not some repulsive hideous witch that would scare children into eating their broccoli.
It’s a cry for help, that tiny bit of insecurity that still fears that I will wake up and all the spots will be back — that I am nipping in the bud before it gets too late.
How my face looked was an important part of my life for months but it’s time to get a grip and realise that I do finally look the way I’ve always wanted to.
