Paris: A Memoir for Young Women in the Age of Influencers

by Paris Hilton

From the time my sister and I were little girls, our mom instilled in us the value of skin care; I always feel her with me in the soothing ritual. Skin care, if you’re doing it right, means claiming a moment of tenderness in an abrasive world. You remove the mask—your brave face, your funny face, your enforcer face, your hard candy coating—and see yourself, cleansed and replenished, and it’s like, “Okay. I’m good.” You feel everything so keenly when you’ve just washed your face. Like a newborn feels that first sting of fresh air. Kim Kardashian and I were making frittata and French toast coated with Frosted Flakes for breakfast one morning, and she said, “I don’t know anyone who parties as hard as you do and looks as good as you do.” Skin care. Seriously. If you take nothing else from my story, receive this: Skin care is sacred. Most women who did coke back in the 1990s looked beat by the mid-aughts. That was a strong deterrent for me. I won’t say I never tried it, but I wasn’t about to sacrifice my complexion for it. Same with cigarettes. You may as well hit yourself in the face with a shovel. These days, my only bad habit is spray-tanning. My sister Nicky can’t stand it, but I’m kind of addicted. Otherwise, Carter and I are big on wellness and skin care. We always say, “Forever’s not long enough.” Taking care of ourselves is something we do for each other out of love. We want our good life to last. After I put the frittata in the oven and set a cute little penguin timer,...