Let me tell you a little story about my skin. I grew up having nearly perfect skin. Don’t get me wrong, I would get the occasional pimple, but nothing my trusty Mario Badescu Drying Lotion ($17) couldn’t handle. Then, suddenly something changed. As I was approaching my 20th birthday, my skin turned on me. To this day, I don’t know what sparked it (I’m going to blame hormones, although not the point), but my skin erupted with cystic acne. I’m talking, big, deep, painful, recurring cysts. Here I was thinking I had escaped my teenaged years acne-free and now I was onto life as clear-skinned adult. Deep sigh. So, as someone who has always been diligent about skincare, I freaked out, naturally. In this type of situation you A) call your mom (crying) or B) call your dermatologist. I did both. The latter led me down a path I would eventually regret.