Beauty & Wellness · Feature · 12 min read
I've Been a Beauty Editor for Thirty-One Years. I Need to Tell You Something I've Never Said Out Loud.
None of it worked on me — not the serums, not the ampoules, not the eleven products I recommended for a living. Then a friend with zero interest in skincare showed me what did.
What thirty-one years actually looks like from my side of the counter
Thirty-one years of writing about skincare, and I have never once told a reader the truth about my own bathroom shelf.
It holds close to fifty products at any given time, most of them arrived unsolicited, a publicist's note tucked under the ribbon promising I was going to love this one. I rarely did. Plenty I never finished testing at all. But I wrote about nearly all of them, because the job runs on a publishing schedule, and a schedule does not leave much room for genuine skepticism.
Across three magazines and two thousand-odd reviews, I have called a product transformative more times than I would like added up in one place. I did the math once, on an evening I am not proud of. Nineteen. Nineteen products I described, in print, as the one that finally changes everything. Not one of them changed anything on my own face that I could actually point to.
I am sixty-eight. I have had professional access to nearly every serum, oil, and cream the industry has produced in three decades, and my skin looks roughly the way it would have looked if I had used none of it — except with lines that were not there five years ago, and a foundation that used to hold until noon and now starts slipping by ten.
I kept this to myself for a long time, the way you keep most uncomfortable facts about your own profession. Writing the columns. Sitting through the launches. Recommending things I half believed in, because the deck was convincing and admitting otherwise would have meant admitting I did not actually know what worked.
A friend changed that seven weeks ago, without meaning to, by sending me a photograph of her own face.
A face I know better than my own
Joan and I met in our twenties, both junior at the same magazine group, before she left publishing entirely and moved two hours north to a small town in the Hudson Valley, where she has spent the past three decades gardening and largely ignoring every trend I have ever written about.
She does not send selfies. Photos of her tomatoes, yes. Her dog looking betrayed after a bath. An article about the weather in a country she has no intention of visiting. So when a picture of her own face landed on my phone on a Tuesday morning — unfiltered, kitchen light, no explanation attached — I assumed she had hit the wrong button.
I opened it properly a few minutes later, and I sat down on the edge of the bed.
Nothing dramatic had happened to Joan. She had not gotten younger. But there was a clarity to her skin, an evenness, that stopped me mid-scroll — the dullness I had quietly clocked on my last two visits was simply gone, and the lines by her mouth, which I had watched deepen the way you watch a relative age from a distance, had softened. Not vanished. Loosened.
I called her.
"Joan. What did you do to your face?"
She laughed. "Wondered when you'd notice. Barbara gave me something, off our walk."
The Wednesday walk
I have spent thirty-one years with a level of access most women never get near — every formulation chemist who would talk to a journalist, every dermatologist with a publicist, champagne handed to me at the same moment as a sample, so smoothly I often could not tell where the hospitality ended and the sales pitch began.
And my oldest friend, who buys a bar of soap at the drugstore and considers a ten-dollar moisturizer an indulgence, had found something that visibly worked — from a woman named Barbara, on a Wednesday morning walk, in a town I had needed to look up on a map the first time Joan moved there.
I drove up the following week. Not on assignment. For the first time in three decades, I was chasing a product because of what it had done to a face I know better than my own.
Joan brought the bottle to the kitchen table with the coffee. Small, plain, amber glass — no box, no ribbon, nothing embossed. It looked like something from an old apothecary shelf, not a department-store counter. The ingredient list on the back ran maybe six or seven lines. Most of what is sitting in my own bathroom runs three times that.
"Barbara's been on it about three months," Joan said. "Looks a decade younger. And you know Barbara — she still prints her boarding passes. She does not exaggerate."
I asked to join the next walk. Five women, moving at the unhurried pace of people with nowhere urgent to be. By the second mile, the conversation had drifted from someone's grandson's soccer schedule to the bottle. Three of the five were using it. Barbara had bought a small stack and handed them out like a retired nurse dispensing advice nobody asked for and everybody was glad to get.
These are not women who discuss skincare. They talk about gardens, grandchildren, whether the new coffee place downtown is worth the walk. And here they were, passing around a small brown bottle from Bulgaria with the seriousness usually reserved for a genuinely good casserole recipe.
Barbara told me her daughter had found it through a private French Facebook group — Les Secrets de Beauté Parisiens, over fifteen thousand women, mostly professionals in their forties and fifties. It had been circulating there for months. Hundreds of comments. Women reordering before they'd even finished the first bottle.
The trail ran from a walking path in the Hudson Valley to a Facebook group in Paris to somewhere in Bulgaria I had not yet placed on a map myself.
What thirty-one years teaches you not to ask
Here is what three decades in this industry actually looks like from the inside, which is not quite what the glossy pages suggest.
I have sat through launch after launch and watched a chemist explain, with total composure, why this year's hero ingredient would finally be the one that worked. I have almost never heard anyone from a brand volunteer the number that actually matters: what percentage of that ingredient is in the bottle a reader is being asked to buy.
I know the rough shape of the answer, because I have asked before, off the record, at the kind of reception where nobody expects a beauty editor to actually do the arithmetic. It is almost always some fraction of a percent — enough to legally print on the label, nowhere near enough to change anything under the skin. Two very different numbers, and everyone pouring the champagne knows exactly which one is being sold.
I had carried that knowledge quietly for years, the way you carry most uncomfortable facts about your own profession, without doing much about it — because doing something about it would mean admitting how much of what I had recommended was precisely that: a fraction of a percent in very good packaging.
Standing on that path, listening to three women in their sixties describe, independently and without any prompting from me, the same specific changes in their skin, I could not keep doing that any longer.
The call
I still had a number for the chemist I have known since 2003 — retired now, same as me. I called her and told her everything: Joan's photograph, Barbara's daughter's French Facebook group, the small amber bottle with the six-line label.
She listened without interrupting. Then she said something that has stayed with me since:
Carol, you have spent thirty-one years watching companies underdose things on purpose. It has apparently never occurred to you that somewhere, someone might be doing the opposite — and that the proof of it would not come out of a laboratory. It would come from a woman on a walking path who has no reason to lie to her friends.
I asked, half hoping, whether she would just tell me what was actually in it.
She would not.
Not over the telephone. There is one ingredient in that bottle I will not discuss secondhand with a journalist — the fraud around it has already started elsewhere, brands putting a trace on a label and letting a woman's own nose do the convincing, then delivering nothing behind it. Come and see the harvest. Then you will understand exactly what three women on a Wednesday walk found before you did.
Five weeks later I was standing in a valley in central Bulgaria at 4:40 in the morning, thinking about Joan's kitchen table, waiting for a harvest that was about to explain everything I had just watched happen to people who had never once asked me for skincare advice.
The valley, and the plant she wouldn't name
Central Bulgaria. Late May, 2019. A long green corridor between two mountain ranges that Europeans treat with the seriousness other countries reserve for wine regions.
The crop was roses. And before you picture the ones on your fence — stop, because that is exactly the confusion she was protecting me from.
This was Rosa damascena — the Damask rose, a small, dense, almost humble-looking bloom farmed for one thing only: oil. Garden roses are bred for the vase — big petals, long stems, a polite scent that is gone by lunch. Damascena is bred for chemistry. What comes out of its petals after distillation is rose otto — an essential oil so concentrated, complex, and scarce that perfume houses have used Bulgarian otto as their reference standard for over a century, and lock in their allocations a year in advance.
This valley — the Rose Valley — is to rose oil what Champagne is to sparkling wine. Warm days, cool nights, particular soil, one short violent bloom. Turkey grows damascena. Morocco grows it. Serious formulators still measure everything against this valley.
"Say 'rose oil' in America and people hear spa music," the chemist had told me. "Stand in the harvest and you will understand it is closer to a precious metal."
I had spent thirty-one years at the glossy end of this exact pipeline, writing admiringly about serums containing a trace of what was growing in front of me. I had simply never stood at the other end of it before.
Why it stays rare — the numbers that ended my skepticism
- Picking happens before sunrise, by hand. Once the sun hits, the same flower yields less oil. The pickers said this flatly, like weather.
- It takes roughly 3,500 kilograms of petals — about three and a half tons of flowers — to produce one kilogram of true rose otto.
- The entire harvest window is about three weeks. Miss it, and you wait a year.
- Which is why real otto trades at prices closer to precious metals than to "moisturizer base" — and why almost no mass-market brand uses a working dose.
Standing in that steam, four hundred launches suddenly looked absurd. The $80 "rose-infused" creams. The pink water in pretty bottles. Almost none of it could possibly contain meaningful amounts of this oil at those yields and prices. The decorative dose isn't a shortcut. It is the entire business model — the same business model I had described, in four thousand one hundred words, in a file nobody was allowed to print.
I had been right since 2003. Standing in that still room was the first time being right felt like it might be worth something.
What a real dose actually does for skin over 45
This is what her thirty-four years come down to. When the oil is real — full otto, working dose — women over forty-five report the same cluster of changes, in the same order.
The tightness goes first. Mature skin loses the lipids that hold moisture in. True damascena oil is one of the richest, most skin-compatible lipid phases in botany. The papery, thirsty, 4-p.m. feeling eases within days, and foundation stops sinking into dry creases.
Then the tone calms. The blotchy, gray, reactive look that reads as "tired" softens as the surface is sealed and soothed. Not bleached — quieter.
Then the light changes. Damascena otto carries one of the densest natural antioxidant loads ever measured in a botanical oil. Daily oxidation is a large part of why older skin looks flat. At a real dose, your face simply holds light better — in mirrors, and in the photographs you usually delete.
And there is one group it rescues outright. It rescues retinol quitters. A rich, calming oil phase is precisely what lets an irritation-prone sixty-something face stay on an active long enough to see results — instead of the flake-quit-restart cycle I knew by heart.
But here the chemist was emphatic: the oil alone is only half a mechanism. Comfort, tone, radiance — yes. Structure — firmness, wrinkle depth — needs a second engine. In her world, that engine is a plant-derived retinol alternative called bakuchiol, at a genuine 2% dose — not the label-decoration half percent most brands sneak in. In published head-to-head research, bakuchiol already matched retinol on wrinkles and pigmentation at that lower 0.5% level, without the irritation, the peeling, or the sun sensitivity. Two percent is four times that concentration — where the firmness conversation for skin over forty-five actually lives.
One oil that almost nobody doses honestly, plus one active that almost nobody doses honestly. Find both in one bottle, she said, and you have the rarest thing in anti-aging: a formula with no fake half.
The name that kept coming up
Back home in New York, I did what thirty-one years had trained me to do: I went looking for where women actually talk. French Facebook groups for women over forty. Comment threads. Forum posts machine-translated at midnight — my French runs to menus and press trips.
One product kept surfacing. Small amber bottle. Less tightness by day three. Foundation sitting properly. Retinol results without the retinol punishment. Batches that sell out when they land. The identical pattern, no ad campaign attached — no US distributor, no influencer program, no billboards — which is why American women had never seen it, and why Frenchwomen had it to themselves for years.
I sent the chemist my notes and asked if she knew what I was looking at.
She did not perform surprise. "Yes. That one. I know the family — Bulgarian, long relationships with the valley's organic growers. They put a real dose of the otto and a real dose of bakuchiol in the same formula and price it like they want women to actually finish the bottle. That is why Frenchwomen pass it around like a pharmacy secret. It is also why it is constantly out of stock."
She does not sell it. She takes no commission. In thirty-four years she has recommended perhaps a handful of products — usually while telling you to stop buying the other twenty. That independence is the whole point of her judgment.
The brand is Gentle & Rose. The bottle is the Rose Youth Elixir — organic Bulgarian rose otto from the valley I stood in, 2% bakuchiol, hyaluronic acid, 99.8% natural, over 100,000 customers, made in small batches that keep selling out even as the family ramps production.
That was the whole endorsement. She moved on to scolding me about sunscreen.
How a real dose ends up at €39
If you have been paying attention for the last four thousand words, this is the obvious objection — the same one I raised: if rose otto trades like a precious metal, how is a working bottle thirty-nine euros? About forty-three dollars.
I asked. The answer is not a coupon. It is a supply chain that most beauty brands simply refuse to run — and it is my killed 2011 article, run in reverse.
Gentle & Rose books organic damascena quantities years ahead with the same valley growers — multi-year contracts, not a scramble on the open market when a trend hits. Decades of direct relationships with those farms, so there is no broker layer stacking margin between the still and the bottle. They make the Elixir themselves in small European batches — their own production, not a white-label lab in a third country. And they sell direct from their European store to women like me: no US distributor cut, no department-store counter taking its third, no "prestige" tax for marble and a free gift with purchase.
A 30ml bottle, used two drops at a time, needs grams of otto, not kilograms. The arithmetic that makes otto precious is real — and it still fits inside a finished face oil when you cut out every middleman who never touched a petal. The $300 serum at the counter is paying for lighting, rent, and a decorative dose. This one is paying for the harvest.
I established in 2011 that roughly a third of a luxury serum's price is the shelf it sits on. Remove the shelf, the campaign, and the celebrity, and thirty-nine euros stops being suspicious. It starts being the actual price of a formula.
Rose Youth Elixir — organic Bulgarian rose oil + 2% bakuchiol · €39 (about $43 — your card converts automatically) · No tariffs, no duties, no hidden fees. 5–9 business days.
The bottle arrives in New York
I ordered from their European store on a Tuesday night in June 2019. Thirty-nine euros — my card statement did the conversion automatically. No tariffs, no customs bill, nothing special to deal with — it felt the same as ordering from an American store, just at a much lower price for what you actually get. The box was at my door six working days later. No broken dropper.
For the record, and because it matters after thirty-one years of free product arriving in beautiful boxes with handwritten notes: I bought it. It was the first skincare product I had ever paid for in my life. I have paid for every bottle since.
What it was actually like on my face
I tested it the way I had spent three decades wishing brands would: cleanse, two drops morning and night, sunscreen in the morning, nothing else new for twelve weeks, photographs every week in the same bathroom light. Retinol shelved. Every other bottle in a drawer.
The texture is the first shock. It is not an oil slick. It is a light, fast-sinking elixir — gone into the skin in under a minute, no film, no shine you have to blot. And the scent is the tell: a true, soft, alive rose — the smell of that valley at 5 a.m., not a rose-candle blast. You cannot fake that scent with a decorative dose. It is the one quality check you can run with your own nose, and I will come back to it.
The second shock comes in about a minute. A gentle, unmistakable firming sensation — not a sting, not a mask-like pull, more like the skin has been picked up and quietly held. The first morning I used it, I kept touching my cheek at breakfast, at sixty-one years of age, like a woman at a counter falling for exactly the kind of sensation I had spent a career warning readers about. Except this time I knew what was producing it, because I had read the label the way I read labels.
By day three, the 4-p.m. tightness was simply gone. By the end of week one, my foundation sat on my face instead of collecting in it, and the gray, tired cast under my kitchen lights had lifted into something I can only call calm. That instant-comfort layer matters more than it gets credit for, because it is the reason you actually stay consistent long enough for the deeper work to happen.
Then the science caught up with the feeling
Here is the mechanism, in plain English, now that you have heard how it feels.
After menopause, four things go wrong at once: collagen production drops sharply — roughly thirty percent in the first five years, and more every year after — which is the softer jaw and the deeper lines. The moisture barrier thins, which is the tightness, the dullness, the clinging makeup. Tone scatters into spots and blotch. And skin stops tolerating irritation, which is goodbye retinol. Four deficits. One face. And the industry sells you a separate bottle for each — or worse, one bottle that only pretends.
The Rose Youth Elixir is one short formula aimed at all four:
| What you want after 45 | Damascena otto (real dose) | Bakuchiol 2% |
|---|---|---|
| Firmer jaw, less slack | Barrier + lipid support so results hold | Drives collagen-supporting renewal |
| Softer wrinkles | Softer, plumper surface fast | Measurably reduces wrinkle appearance |
| Even, brighter tone | Antioxidant shield + calming | Fades spots as skin turns over |
| No retinol punishment | The comfort layer that prevents irritation | Retinol-class results without the flaking |
Three quieter players finish the label, and after thirty-one years of reading ingredient lists in four seconds, I want you to know they are all above the preservative line. Low-molecular hyaluronic acid — the water phase that plumps from within so the oil and the bakuchiol have something to seal and renew. Lactic acid — the one I was most pleased to find at my age, gently loosening the dead surface cells that accumulate when renewal slows to a crawl, working the same layer as the bakuchiol from the other side, and carrying pigmented cells away with it. And sorghum stalk juice — which is what you can feel tightening, very slightly, in that first minute.
Bakuchiol is why dermatologists have spent years calling this class of plant actives "retinol without the tax." In published head-to-head work it matched retinol on wrinkles and pigmentation at 0.5%, with a fraction of the irritation. Gentle & Rose runs 2% — four times that published bar — because that is where the firmness data for mature skin is aiming.
In their own 12-week evaluation on women over forty-five — the faces this bottle is for, not twenty-five-year-old panelists — they reported roughly a 22% reduction in skin roughness and a 21% reduction in the appearance of wrinkles, alongside gains in firmness and tone. I would draw your attention to the first figure rather than the second, and I say that as somebody who has spent three decades watching brands lead with the wrong number. Wrinkle depth is what sells. Roughness is what actually changes how a face looks in a room — a rough surface scatters light and a smooth one returns it — and after menopause, roughness is the thing that arrives first and most visibly. A company that puts its roughness number ahead of its wrinkle number is a company that has been talking to dermatologists, not marketers.
On my own face, weeks three to six were texture and tone. Weeks six to twelve were the jawline and the side-by-side photographs.
Week twelve, September 2019
At twelve weeks: a jaw that photographed the way it had five or six years earlier, lines beside my mouth that held no foundation, tone even enough that I skipped color-corrector, and a brightness that was not highlighter.
My sister Ruth is two years younger than me and has never once been tactful about anything in six decades. She came for lunch that August, looked at me across the table before she had her coat off, and said: "All right. What did you do? You look good." Which, from Ruth, is a standing ovation.
For the record, and because I have spent this entire article complaining about people who do not do this: I was sixty-one then and I looked sixty-one. I am sixty-eight now and I look sixty-eight. My deepest lines are where they were. It did not make me fifty. What it made me was firmer, calmer, brighter, and easier to photograph — and it has kept me there for seven years and a number of bottles I stopped counting somewhere in the thirties. That is the correct promise, honestly kept, and it is the first one I have put my name to since 1988.
I wasn't the only one keeping photos
While I was still testing, I posted in two of the American 45+ skincare groups where the Elixir had started crossing the Atlantic, and asked for real experiences — not filtered reviews, the kind of messy phone photos and blunt replies women actually send each other. I have kept an eye on those threads for seven years since.
Gentle & Rose's public number is over 100,000 customers. The quieter number is the one that matters: how many of those women are on a second or third bottle. In the threads, repurchase shows up the way Frenchwomen talk about a pharmacy secret — ordered again before it sold out — not a one-and-done coupon buy. A sample of what came back:
Margaret T., 58 — Columbus, Ohio: "Three retinols made my face peel like a sunburn. This didn't sting once, and at week eight my daughter asked what I'd had done. Nothing, honey. Two drops a day."
Diane R., 61 — Scottsdale, Arizona: "I've spent $300 on serums that did less than this $43 bottle. The dark spot on my left cheek — the one I've had since 2019 — is honestly half as visible. I ordered two more before they sold out again."
Susan K., 52 — Raleigh, North Carolina: "The smell alone told me this was different. Real rose, like a garden at dawn, gone in a minute. My foundation stopped creasing by the second week. I've repurchased twice."
Patricia M., 64 — Sarasota, Florida: "At my age I don't expect miracles, I expect honesty. Twelve weeks in, my neck and jaw look firmer in photos and my skin isn't tight by evening for the first time in years. It took six days to arrive. Worth every one."
Editor's note: names and identifying details of readers quoted are used with permission; experiences are individual and results vary.
Rose Youth Elixir · Gentle & Rose
€39 — about $43. Your card converts automatically at checkout.
Organic Bulgarian rose otto (Rose Valley harvest) + 2% bakuchiol + hyaluronic acid · 99.8% natural
For: firmness · wrinkles · dark spots & tone · dullness · retinol-intolerant skin
No tariffs, no duties, no hidden fees. 5–9 business days.
Every bottle covered by a 60-day money-back guarantee, counted from the day your order arrives.
Why you may have to wait — and why I'd rather you didn't
Remember the arithmetic: three and a half tons of hand-picked petals per kilogram of oil, from a three-week harvest window, once a year. Gentle & Rose makes the Elixir in small batches against that fixed supply — the same advance-booked organic harvest and in-house production that keep a real dose at thirty-nine euros instead of a prestige markup. They are ramping, year by year. I have watched them do it since 2019. And demand from France, and now America, still arrives faster than a still can run. Batches sell out. Restocks take weeks, not days, because you cannot rush a harvest you already contracted for last winter.
So the real choice is not this serum versus another serum. It is this: keep cycling through decorative-dose bottles that were never going to work — the ones my 2011 article was about, the ones that are still on the shelf, unchanged, fifteen years later — or try the one formula where both halves are real, while the current batch is actually in stock.
What I would tell a friend my age — including the honest limits
- Two drops, morning and night, on clean skin. More is not more. The bottle lasts a couple of months this way — under a dollar a day, which is less than I have watched women spend on products doing nothing at all.
- Wear sunscreen in the morning. Antioxidants are not SPF, and nothing here changes that. The chemist scolded me about this and she was right.
- Judge the comfort in the first week — judge the mirror at twelve. The tightness relief and the calm tone come fast. The jaw and the wrinkle changes are an 8-to-12-week story. That is how real actives work, and it is the week almost everybody nearly gives up.
- If retinol has wrecked you before, this is your lane back — the results conversation without the peeling penance. This was my situation at sixty-one, and it is the single most common thing women my age write to me about.
- If you fear oils will break you out or feel heavy: this is a light, fast-sinking elixir, not a salad dressing. Two drops. If your skin is oily-combination, start at night only for a week and see.
- If you stack other products: keep the first two weeks simple — cleanse, Elixir, SPF by day — so you can actually feel this formula. Then reintroduce what you still need. Most of what I reintroduced, I later threw away.
- If you are fragrance-sensitive: real damascena has a true rose scent that fades fast. It is not a rose-candle blast. If any botanical scent bothers you, patch-test the inner arm first.
- Know what it is not. It is not an injectable. It will not erase every line or undo thirty years of unprotected sun, and anyone who tells you a bottle will is running the 2011 playbook. It made a sixty-one-year-old face firmer, calmer, brighter, and easier to photograph, and it has kept a sixty-eight-year-old face that way. I consider that the correct promise, honestly kept.
Sixty days, which is longer than it needs
There is a 60-day money-back guarantee, counted from the day your order arrives, and I want to do the arithmetic with you rather than simply wave at it, because after thirty-one years I have some feeling for what a guarantee is actually saying.
Sixty days is eight and a half weeks. The point at which the structural change begins to show is week eight. One bottle, used properly, carries you there.
That is not a generous returns policy. That is a company saying: take it the whole way to the thing we told you about, and if it has not happened, we will pay for the experiment ourselves. I sat in four hundred launches and never once saw a large brand offer that — because you cannot bring a half-used serum back to a beauty counter in week eight and say it did not work. You are expected to conclude that you used it wrongly, or too late, or that you are simply the age you are. And then to buy something else.
So the downside is straightforward. You are out nothing. The only thing you can lose is another eight weeks of the arrangement you already have.
Fifteen years late
I have spent thirty-one years telling women what to buy, and I was wrong more often than I was right — not by lying, but by leaving out the question I had been carrying since 2003.
This is the first thing I have written that no advertising director has seen, that no brand has approved, and that nobody sent me a gift basket for. It is fifteen years late. I am sorry it took me this long, and I am not going to pretend the apology is worth much.
One more thing, before the link — the same thing I would say across a kitchen table. After menopause, skin loses roughly another one to two percent of its collagen every year you wait. The photograph you do not like this year is, left alone, the best photograph of the next ten. Waiting is not neutral. It is a decision with a price — paid in the same slow arithmetic as the petals, just in the opposite direction.
Rose Youth Elixir · Gentle & Rose · €39 (about $43 — card converts automatically)
Organic Rose Valley damascena otto + 2% bakuchiol · 99.8% natural · 100,000+ customers (many already on bottle two and three — I am somewhere past thirty)
Firmness · wrinkles · dark spots · tone · radiance — one bottle, both halves real
No tariffs, no duties, no hidden fees. 5–9 business days. · 60-day money-back guarantee, counted from the day your order arrives — try it on your own face, risk-free
Small batches from a three-week harvest. When the current one is gone, the next takes weeks.
P.S. — If you only remember one thing from four thousand words and thirty-one years: your nose can run the same quality check I did. Real otto smells like that valley at 5 a.m. and is gone in a minute. If a "rose" product smells like a candle, you already know what is — and is not — in the bottle. I learned to read labels in four seconds. You can do this one in two.
Individual results vary. Wear SPF daily.