A wholly unresearched conclusion about Mexican skincare
Bethany Platanella is a travel planner and Michelin Guidebook writer based in Mexico City. She lives for the dopamine hit that comes directly after booking a plane ticket, exploring local markets, practicing yoga and munching on fresh tortillas. Sign up to receive her Sunday Love Letters to your inbox, peruse her blog, or follow her on Instagram.
As my years pile up and decades in the sun show evidence on my fair face, I’ve become obsessed with older Mexican women and what appears to be almost-entirely wrinkle-free skin. Google Gemini tells me traditionally, señoras turned to aloe vera to moisturize and fade dark spots; calendula to reduce redness; mashed avocado for hydration; brown sugar mixed with honey to scrub away dead skin before bathing. I’ve tried it all – from rose water to honey masks, and while I do see immediate improvement, the long-term effects have yet to surface.
I’ve no doubt Mexico City has aged me far more than my decade in a sun-drenched Miami. The water, the dry air, the altitude (scientifically proven to raise UV exposure and, in the specific case of Mexico City, worsened by an urban heat-island effect, where concrete, asphalt, and buildings reflect and concentrate radiation) has wreaked havoc on my face and arms – not to mention a pair of profoundly stressful years that all but sucked the life out of me.
I see it all reflected in the mirror, a simple fact of life that’s turned into a fixation, heightened by the shocking number of women (and men) turning to Botox and my own (also shockingly high) levels of vanity. It’s tough to age in a society where, at least from the forehead and up, no one else seems to be aging, especially in Mexico where more than 1.7 million cosmetic procedures were performed in 2023, alone.
And so I find myself staring – if not unabashedly – at women around me, and their nasolabial folds and crows feet, and I’ve come to my own (wholly unresearched) conclusion that the majority of Mexican women don’t get wrinkles. Of course, this ignores an entire swarth of female farmers, fishers, and various outdoor professions; however, and judge me if you must, I’m referring to the women I see in my immediate circle, which includes upper-middle-class grandmothers, juice vendors, caretakers, shop owners, office workers, stay-at-home-wives, etc. etc. etc.
No no, it appears none of them have wrinkles. They age, the elasticity weakens, the hair turns a brilliant shade of white, but wrinkles? I’ve certainly got them outnumbered, and I’m only 42. Turns out, I’m not entirely wrong. Darker skin has naturally higher SPF than lighter skin. According to Howard University’s Dr. Cheri N. Frey, “etched lines, fine wrinkles and even coarse wrinkles” tend to occur later in life.
And then, I met my new boyfriend’s mother. A classic Nortena, she lives in dry heat and blazing sun most of the year, winter lows hit single digit Celsius. She’s an elegant dresser, wears perfectly-applied lipstick. Her hair is sheen, white, cropped above the ears. Her eyebrows are artfully drawn with a purple-hued pen, her jewelry ranges from classic to colorful. She is, as they say, the fairest of them all, and try as I might, I can hardly find a blemish in her smooth, plump skin.
Your mother has no wrinkles, I say to my new boyfriend’s brother, who sits in the driver seat while I sit in the backseat, as my new boyfriend exits the car and walks his mother to her door.
“Ayyy, that’s because she got rid of them,” he responds.
What do you mean, got rid of them?
She had them removed, in a seven-hour surgery. He laughs. A sort of – I don’t know, disappointment is it? Relief? Dread? rises from the base of my already-queasy-from-sitting-in-the-backseat stomach.
She had plastic surgery?
I need confirmation. I need to know this isn’t natural as much as I need to know it is natural.
Something like that.
(Facelifts do, indeed, take seven surgical hours and are surging in popularity. Procedures have increased by 75.9% in 2024 when compared with 2020.)
My new boyfriend gets back in the car. We switch topic.
When I get home, I throw away my mashed avocado. Better to eat it, instead.