Beauty Survival Tips from a Chronically Ill Dreadful Hippy

By Antonia@UnremarkableMe, your local dreadful hippy and professional fashle enthusiast

There’s a particular kind of magic in learning to care for yourself when your body has stopped playing fair. It’s a blend of science, stubbornness, and the occasional box dye disaster that leaves you looking like you lost a bet with a crayon. Welcome to personal care when you’re chronically ill — where survival meets self-expression in a haze of glitter, gel patches, and questionable sheet masks.

The Clothing Chronicles: From Armour to Identity

There’s a big difference between dressing for the life you have and the one you’re pretending you still live in. And chronic illness? It’s got a real talent for dragging that difference into the spotlight — usually while you’re halfway into a pair of jeans that once fit.

Rediscovering what actually feels good to wear — not just what looks good — was one of the most unexpectedly liberating shifts in my self-care journey. I didn’t stop loving clothes; I just stopped letting them punish me.

So if you’re floating in that weird middle space — not quite who you were, not yet sure who you are now— here’s how to start gently meeting your new self in the mirror:

• Build backwards from comfort. Start with how you want to feel — warm, soft, secure — and dress accordingly.

• Reclaim “lazy” day clothes. Leggings and oversized jumpers aren’t failures; they’re peace treaties with your body.

• Create your own aesthetic. “Comfort goblin”? “Glam witch”? “Cottagecore meets pain management”? Lean in.

• Buy less, love it more. Charity shops are treasure troves. Go for fabrics that breathe and colours that hug.

• Dress honestly. Make your wardrobe reflect your reality, not a Pinterest board curated by someone with working collagen and boundless energy.

I’ve always loved clothes. Growing up in the hand-me-down era, every black bin bag from a cousin was Christmas morning — part fashion show, part personality roulette. Later, clothes became more than fun; they became my armour.

Working in hospitality was like dancing in a blender. My therapist once noted that getting ready for a night shift resembled “preparing for war.” And she was right. Even when I felt like roadkill inside, I’d make sure I looked impeccable. It wasn’t vanity. It was survival.

And laundry? Forget it. I was working 70+ hours a week with zero capacity for chores. So yes, I used to buy new clothes several times a week — not for indulgence, but because it was either that or wearing yesterday’s regrets.

These days, life moves a little slower. Charity shops are my high fashion. Floaty trousers are my armour of choice. I may be a dreadful hippy now — but at least I’m a comfortable one.

The Mirror, the Box Dye, and the Year of Rebirth (feat. Fabulous Hair)

After some particularly nasty treatment, my hair went from “dry” to “crispy noodle nightmare.” In a desperate attempt to feel better, I reached for a box dye. Big mistake. Huge. The result? Somewhere between abstract art and cry-for-help chic.

I avoided mirrors for a while. I didn’t recognise the woman staring back. But somewhere in that mess, something shifted. I stopped dressing to please. Stopped caring whether anyone liked what I looked like. And leaned, full tilt, into the wild, expressive version of myself I’d always secretly admired.

Enter: temporary dreadlocks. And let me tell you — they’ve been life-saving.

Not only do I not have to do my hair (because it’s already done, thank you very much), but I can wash them, switch up the colour or style, and know that my natural hair underneath is safe and sound. With a silk night cap for sleeping and a bit of scalp oil every now and then, they’ve become part of a low-maintenance, high-impact routine that actually protects my hair. In fact — miracle of miracles — it’s growing back. Turns out, caring for your hair instead of waging daily battle against it? Rather effective.

They’re not just a style choice. They’re comfort, creativity, and protection rolled into one gloriously expressive package.

Skincare Started at 15: The Crow’s Feet Origin Story

I’ve had the same skincare routine since I was fifteen. I remember looking at my mum’s face and thinking, “Shit. I look like her. What can I do now to make sure those crow’s feet end with her?”

Enter: Estée Lauder. Their DayWear and NightWear lines have been ride-or-die staples for decades. I’ve dabbled in other brands, sure — but I always come crawling back like a skincare ex who knows they messed up.

Even their tinted moisturiser (hi again, DayWear foundation) has survived the test of time and crash days.

Back in my pub days, I used to hear:“Shut up, are you really 40? You don’t look it.”Smugness achieved.“You’re literally old enough to be my mum.”Smugness terminated.That person was definitely not reassigned to toilet duty for a month. Definitely not.

Makeup: The Great Non-Evolution

Makeup and I have always had a loose understanding. My mum once got me one of those enormous fold-out makeup kits filled with colours that could be seen from space. Blues, greens, lipsticks so neon they came with their own warning label.

I remember asking my little brother if Mum thought I was going to become a “working girl.”

I never really got the hang of it until I was 38, when one of my 18-year-old barmaids gave me a full tutorial on blending eyeshadow. Bless her glittery heart.

These days, I keep it simple: tinted moisturiser, neutral eyes, maybe mascara on a good day. It’s not about covering up — it’s about seeing a little sparkle of myself again.

Crash Days and Fashles: Self-Care Meets Survival

Some days, self-care looks like a spa retreat. Other days, it looks like not crying when you trying to get washed and dressed.

On crash days, my toolkit is sacred:

• Good facial wipes (no burning, no stickiness)

• Sheet masks (bonus points if you look like a Victorian ghost)

• Under-eye gel patches (Sam definitely steals them sometimes)

• Reusable fridge-chilled gel eye masks (perfect for when your brain’s trying to exit via your forehead)

• Heat patches (I once dreamed I looked like a patchwork quilt — functional and terrifying)

And if my niece Evie’s around? We’re in full fashle mode (her word for facials). Sheet masks, popcorn, torches — the works. Like a cult, but fabulous. Honestly, it’s one of life’s purest joys.

Final Thoughts: On Beauty, Identity, and Accepting the Chaos

Living with chronic illness forces you to reassess everything — especially how you see yourself. There’s grief, sure. For the energy, the routines, the reflection that once felt familiar. But there’s also freedom.

I used to dress for survival. Now, I dress for joy.I used to wear makeup for approval. Now, I wear it when I want to sparkle.I used to treat skincare like a shield. Now, it’s an act of love.

So here’s to the ones still showing up. With heat patches. With glitter. With tenderness toward the ever-changing person in the mirror.

We are tired. We are brilliant. We are dreadful hippies.And we are still here.