Do You Really Need This Extra Skin-Care Step?

I was waiting to board a flight when a woman in line behind me pressed something into my hand. "Use this on the plane," she whispered. "When you land, you'll look completely fresh." She wasn't a drug trafficker. She was Sylvie Chantecaille, the founder of Chantecaille Beauté and an old friend.

In the shiny foil packet was an eye mask, two perfect crescents soaked in a serum that contained bits of gold, no less. A half hour before landing, I stuck them under my worn-out eyes, downed a cup of coffee, and—poof!—no more jet lag.

I love a mask. Ever since I sneaked into my mother’s bathroom and grabbed one off her shelf, I’ve been a fan. That first one, Helena Rubinstein Brush-On Peel-Off Mask, seemed designed expressly to tempt an eight-year-old poking through her mother’s stuff. It was cobalt blue, with a primary-school Dick-and-Jane name and an irresistible similarity to rubber cement, which every third grader in history paints on her hands and rolls off in satisfyingly sticky balls.

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Masks were designed for slumber parties, for lazing around, for at-home before-and-afters. I used to make my own out of egg whites or oatmeal as if I were whipping up a batch of cookies. I graduated to the first-aid tape of a Bioré pore strip and eventually to pricey salon concoctions. One popular treatment in the '90s involved layer upon layer of seaweed and algae that hardened into a shell. As it dried, I had to practice Lamaze breathing to keep from spiraling into a claustrophobic panic. After far too many minutes, the facialist whacked the mask with a mallet and lifted it off like a plaster cast. It was terrifying, but the results were wonderful.

There's a horror-movie theme to many of these beauty treatments, particularly the Hannibal Lecter sheet masks that are everywhere now. They have the added benefit of giving a good scare.

I'm currently in love with the sadly undramatic-looking but deeply moisturizing La Prairie sleep mask, which comes with its own mini paintbrush. The instruction manual maps out the precise method and direction to stroke the thick cream over your forehead, cheekbones, and chin, as if that would matter (unlikely). With that mask on my face, six and a half hours in bed seem extra productive.

As much as I love them, I can't escape the feeling that all these masks could use a dose of style. To that end, I’ve asked two fashion designers with newly minted beauty lines to add a little sex appeal to the category. I want those restorative serums and essences delivered with a bit of panache, perhaps a mask in black or gold lace, say, or maybe something in a leopard print. And please, nothing that requires a mallet to remove.

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