My year in face masks: the pain, shame and growing 'covstalgia'​

It all started with a faintly disturbing kids’ party giraffe mask, the sort made of thin foam with the eyes and mouth cut out. With all the shops closed, this horrible object from the back of the wardrobe was the only source of elastic we had. After much poking with a knitting needle, an old pair of the children’s jogging bottoms also yielded up a rather thick, slightly grotty waistband.

It was mid-April 2020. I had been lying in bed for a few days watching Tiger King as my body dealt with a hideous cough, mild fever, aches and chills. My family was banished to the rooms below as I caught up on a lifetime of unwatched Netflix and the GP told us to “act as if it was Covid”. I would be lying to say there wasn’t some enjoyment amid the terror of those times. My husband brought me meals. I got to watch the film Roma without having to explain myself.

The situation felt rather dramatic, but in reality I was just a bit sick, and getting bored. Everyone had started talking about masks and how they might be useful if we ever left our houses again. I didn’t really expect them to become a long-term fixture in our lives and the “science” seemed mixed anyway.

Any breath out immediately puffed up over my nose, steaming up my glasses.

I took those grotty pieces of elastic and, using a piece of old curtain featuring sailing boats, hand stitched some rudimentary “face coverings”— as the Government took to calling them. My first pattern-less efforts were horribly thick and lacked any tailoring to the face. Any breath out immediately puffed up over my nose, steaming up my glasses.

The stiff fabric pushed at my lower eyelashes, blocking my view as I looked down. It was awkward but the very size and weight of the thing was comforting. There was no discomfort I could not tolerate. Blocking the field of vision was surely the best way to fight the virus.

I wore this bold nautically-themed mask out on my first foray onto the streets of London, my anorak hood pulled tight around my head. I coughed into it gently as I walked nervously through the streets. The sound of my heavy breath echoed loudly around inside my hood.

But this was only the first mask in a long line over 2020 and 2021. In many ways, the evolution, the ebb and tide of my mask collection, tells the story of the pandemic as I experienced it.

In mid-2020, anybody of even a slightly crafty bent was doubled over a sewing machine and running up scrubs, masks for NHS staff or face coverings for their families.

Bored with home schooling and in search of some self-actualisation, I joined in, ordered a cheap machine, and bought some cotton fabric printed with Russian dolls. Like much of the nation, I worked out the best and quickest design on YouTube – made from two identical circles of fabric. These had to be better than the giant purple snoods we had bought off the Internet.

Noses often broke free. Noses were criticised for being too flat, too pointy, too snotty.

I hassled my kids and husband to be fitted for theirs; no one displayed the slightest enthusiasm for my all-consuming task but they tolerated me. I ended up with a basket full of odd ill-fitting masks we would rummage through before leaving the house. There would be various complaints about colour and texture and painfully bent ears. Noses often broke free. Noses were criticised for being too flat, too pointy, too snotty, too unruly.

Over the months I got tired of creating the perfect mask to fit all circumstances and I eventually decided it was time to support the local economy, buying a cheap maroon paisley number off the market. It fitted instantly and I couldn’t remember why I had ever bothered making my own sorry efforts. I bought another one and promptly lost both.

Later, I bought a pack of disposable ones in the pound shop and placed it in the car door – “just in case” we needed one while out on the road. They smelt of plastic and looked crinkly and ugly, and we never drove anywhere anyway.

We found a satiny one in Boots that looked inspired by the M and S lingerie section

By September, my boy needed one for school – we found a satiny one in Boots that looked inspired by the M and S lingerie section that he was weirdly keen on. It had an impressive wirey nose clip bit that could be detached for washing.

To attend a rare work meeting in London, I layered a pound shop KN95 dust mask with a pretty handmade floral affair and braved the Victoria line: I could barely inhale but the discomfort was itself a comfort.

Around Christmas, I was desperate to create some festive masks. I was so depressed by the rapidly rising cases and kids isolating at home, only a session with the festive robin fabric and the sewing machine could make me feel remotely better. We handed them to my kids’ teachers, not really expecting them to wear them.

In the freezing depths of February, I bought black masks for school off the market when the mask seller was the only stall there. Chatting to a merchant about quality elastic and adjustable ear thingys at that time was deemed the height of exciting conversation.

Which brings us to now. Cases are quite low but rising and I have one jab, but not two. Looking for a serviceable mask before you leave the house has become an everyday challenge. It seems it doesn’t matter how many you had yesterday, you don’t have any right now. Like hair bobbles and matching socks, they are sucked into the fabric of your home which is reluctant to yield them up. I still have the paisley one off the market. I look at my earliest homemade efforts with a sense of shame and growing “covstalgia” (which, I promise, will soon be a word).

Face masks have been a welcome distraction. Something to control when everything else is out of control.

I now favour the thinnest fabric I can find. Wearing a mask feels more like theatre than genuine infection prevention so I opt for easy breathing over anything else.

Hygiene, I will confess, has slipped. The “wash after every use” of spring 2020, has become “wash when it’s starting to look a bit grotty”.

For the past 15 months, face masks have been a welcome distraction. Something to control when everything else is unpredictable. A splash of colour on a grindingly grey day.

Something to rip off in a fury outside Sainsbury’s and feel the fresh air rush into your lungs, thankful you are still alive.