Body Skin Perfector

After my pregnancy with my son, I kept my legs covered for five summers. Stretch marks on my inner thighs, two C-section scars, the usual.

I got VELLORIYA for my sister’s wedding in June. I thought I’d only wear it for the occasion. Now I use it even in the garden with my daughter, because I can finally wear shorts.

My husband just said: “I didn’t know you put makeup on your legs.” He didn’t know because you can’t tell.

I bump into everything — bed corners, table edges, the knob on the washing machine. Always have. I have yellow, purple and blue bruises at different stages on both thighs, almost all year round. Plus a dark, mole-like spot on my inner calf that showed up after a sun allergy two years ago.

Last Sunday: my cousin’s birthday by the lake, a little short dress. The night before, I brushed VELLORIYA onto the most visible areas. I was going to put a bandage over it like usual, but there was nothing left to cover.

My brother, who’s known me since I was five, looks at me and says: “Since when are your legs so flawless?” For a week now, I told him. For a week.

My wedding in September, a backless Carolina Herrera gown. On my shoulder blades, two small dark acne marks from my teens that the photographer always had to retouch in the test shots.

VELLORIYA on in the morning, 10 minutes to dry, dressed. I danced until three in the morning under the lights. Not a mark on the dress. Not a mark on the groom’s collar.

The photos came out with no retouching. My mom cried looking at them. For the first time, you couldn’t see the marks.

Milky-white skin all year round, even after two weeks at the beach. People called me “the Little Mermaid,” and it wasn’t a compliment. For the past four years, I wore pants even in July.

VELLORIYA didn’t make me look “tanned.” It just made me look like a normal person who leaves the house. Lightest shade — it looks like my own color if I’d spent a month in the sun without ever burning.

My first selfie in shorts on Instagram in four years. No makeup. No posing. Just my legs, finally.

Two kids, tons of stretch marks on my hips and inner thighs. I’ve had them for four years; my body never had time to heal between pregnancies. I’d bought a green floral bikini before my first pregnancy — I found it the other day at the back of a drawer, tags still on.

Vacation in Corsica with my sister, early afternoon at the hotel pool. I applied it in the morning after my shower, and eight minutes later I walked out of the room. My sister was about to say “you forgot your sarong,” then she looked at me.

Nothing dramatic, no before-and-after photos. The stretch marks are still there; I can feel them if I run my hand over them. But they’re invisible. I stayed at the pool until closing time.

I’ve had twelve moles removed over the past three years — family history of melanoma. They healed into red-purple keloids on my chest and arms. Scar-healing patches for a year: nothing. Laser treatment considered: too expensive.

My cousin’s wedding in May — I was a bridesmaid, and the bride had picked a sleeveless dress. I almost said no.

Two coats on the most visible keloids. The scars are invisible in the wedding photos. They haven’t disappeared — they’re covered. But that’s exactly what I wanted.

Eighteen months postpartum. My son is walking, and I still can’t get changed in front of my husband. Purple stretch marks on my belly and inner thighs, “fresh ones,” as my family puts it. Special oil for four months: nothing. Laser quoted at €3,200: I laughed — I’m on maternity leave.

Ordered it in secret. Our first date night in months, I chose to wear his shirt, nothing underneath. He didn’t notice a thing. I did.

It’s not “I’ve accepted my body.” It’s that now, I get to choose whether to show it or not.

I’ve always had a 1A complexion — what the Sephora sales assistant calls “porcelain.” My legs have that translucent look that almost reflects the office fluorescent lights. The slightest bump against a table corner leaves bruises that last two weeks. Little spider veins behind my knees that other women don’t have.

Saturday afternoon. VELLORIYA had arrived a week earlier, and I finally opened it. Three passes on each leg, on the couch in front of Netflix. I put my boyfriend’s old shorts back on, the ones I only wear at home.

I stared at my legs for ten minutes without recognizing them. The bruises on my thighs were gone. The spider veins too. They looked like normal legs — not model legs, just normal human legs. And that alone was already a dream for me.

Cystic acne from age 13 to 22. The skin on my face eventually healed. My back didn’t. Deep acne scars between my shoulder blades — I never look at them in the mirror.

Company Christmas dinner, formal dress code, a colleague suggested a backless dress. For the first time in ten years, I said yes.

Brushed onto my back — I have to admit, it takes a little patience to reach between the shoulder blades. Result: the scars are still there, but covered. A group photo without hiding.