Side by side in the bathroom of our apartment, an ex-girlfriend and I were making final preparations for a night out. I combed. She zhuzhed. We sprayed. I complained about a particularly unsightly pimple. She reached into her purse and palmed a slim Tiffany-blue tube, popped the cap, dabbed the pad of her ring finger at its end, and applied the dust-like film directly to my zit. Miraculously, it seemed to disappear. “There you go,” she said, examining her handiwork in the mirror. “All covered up.” I was 22 or 23, and it was the first time I’d worn makeup.

A few days later, when another blemish appeared (this one like a bull’s-eye, painful and throbbing beneath the furrows of my brow), I rummaged through her stuff until I found the tube: Sue Devitt Automatic Camouflage Concealer. With a few careful swipes of my finger, I applied the gunk as I’d seen her do until the tan shade of the concealer—named Granite Downs, which sounded vaguely like a horse track—blended seamlessly with my midsummer skin tone. The makeup left just a hint of chalky film behind, but the result was a barely visible bump—a massive improvement over the volcano-shaped sore that had existed before. Satisfied, I went to work.

Ever since my awkward teens, I’ve done battle against cystic acne. It’s the kind that forms deep, appearing on my defenseless face not as cute Clearasil whiteheads but rather as painful scarlet lumps. Lumps that practically beg to be picked, prodded, squeezed, even safety-pinned to death only to then rupture into open wounds, followed by scabs, followed by scars.

Genes are partly to blame for cystic acne, but lifestyle contributes, too. In college my lack of sleep, coupled with my prodigious intake of light beer and recreational drugs, led these zits to crowd my brow or set up camp three at a time along my hairline. Once in a while, underground cysts would inflame my nose to what felt like twice its normal size. “Party zits” I called them, and they continued into my early years as a member of the workforce, appearing after epic weekend benders. I went through a lot of makeup in those days.

Pretty soon my girlfriend’s tube of wonder dust was empty, a hollow shell casing. The day it happened, I snuck out of work, rode the 6 train uptown, and sheepishly showed the tiny tube around the makeup floor of Barneys until someone recognized it and rang me up. “My girlfriend asked specifically for this one,” I told the cashier.

It’s been over a decade now, and of all the toiletries that have graced my Dopp kit—the brown colognes, the clear serums, the white moisturizers, and the green deodorants—the only constant has been that blue tube. Thanks to Amazon, my furtive jaunts to the makeup floor are over. I buy the waterproof cover-up two tubes at a time for about ten bucks a pop, and they last me a couple of years each. I still suffer from cystic acne, though a healthier diet, regular exercise, and a drastically lower blood-alcohol level have improved my situation. I even have days when I don’t need the tube at all. Those are good days.

For the most part, though, applying a dab of concealer has just become part of my ritual, no different from shaving or plucking nose hairs. It’s a self-esteem booster—a life hack, as my generation would say. And it’s probably the best bargain I have going: fractions of a cent every day for clear-looking skin.

Men of the world, women have this one figured out. Stop being so heteronormative and get with the program. Wearing concealer will be the most effective, least fussy grooming move you make all day. One dab and you’re out the door.

Sean Hotchkiss is a writer in Los Angeles, where everyone’s skin looks phenomenal.

Watch NowYour First Look at the GQ x Gap Coolest Designers on the Planet CollectionRelated Stories for GQSkincareGrooming