So last year, I go to the waxing lady, whom I love. Which is odd, cuz she does pour hot wax on my special girl parts then RIPSSS. And once you aren't a firm 20-something anymore (OK, so you aren't a firm 40-something anymore either, dammit. And by "you" I do mean ME!), anyhow when it RIPPSS all your business comes along for the ride.
So she keeps saying to me: “We need to give you a chemical peel”, which sounds okay when she is pulling wax off your special places, but sounds less appealing when she is actually finished.
She keeps bringing it up and I keep saying: “Sure! Maybe someday.”
Then I go to the dermatologist, where they have the gall to tell me I have a lot of sun damage to my skin. I've never been more insulted. (The truth is irrelevant here.)
You know Dr. Dermatologist, if you want my business you might start out by COMPLIMENTING me! And then tell me how much prettier I could be if I spent more money with you! Ha!
So to punish the dermatologist, I set an appointment for a chemical peel with the waxing lady instead.
I try to cancel the appointment three times. She won't let me.
I come in and say: “You know what? I’m really busy today – (even though it’s Saturday). I've changed my mind. But I'll still pay for the appointment.”
She forces me up on the table.
I giggle nervously.
I lie down and she starts to put the "solution" on my face.
I sit back up. I say “I've given it a great deal of thought, but I'm thinking only one coat of that stuff is enough.”
She puts her hand on my forehead and yanks me back down.
As she is wiping, and I am fanning (and kicking my legs, and taking hyperventilation-type deep breaths and humming in a high-pitched way that is making dogs three miles away start to howl) I am pretty sure I've made some type of grave error.
Finally she lets me get up and run around the room.
She proudly holds up a mirror to my face to show me the "great" results and then I really start to scream!
I am all white, and crispy and frosty. Like I've been out in a snow drift and have actually lost several toes.
Uh...can I pay you double to undo this? Can we make it go away? Wailing louder: Do you have a time machine cuz I really wish I hadn't done this!!!
So really? I paid someone to pour acid on my face, like that poor man who was the director of the Bolshoi Ballet. Except he was a victim of a horrible crime. I, on the other hand, made an appointment and wrote a check for this.
Switching gears…and not to let a shopping opportunity pass me by no matter what else is happening, I stop by the hat store and pick up three hats. Because I’m like the guy in Phantom of the Opera, except without the flipping mask thingie. Let’s just say, I’m hideous.
But little do I know, but the hats are really NOT going to be helping me much that week.
So I go home to my family.
And we wait.
And as we wait, I get browner and browner.
And more swollen and more swollen.
I am so tight, and stiff and swollen that I can't eat. (OK, this is a total lie. I manage to eat, but it does crack all the skin around my mouth to do so. )
I am however, just barely able to get my lips around a glass. Whether or not there is a martini in “said glass” hardly seems to be relevant. (Or does it?)
We get up to go to church. (Don't think me too pious. It is Easter morning.) I put on a cute frock, a scarf, a hat and mirrored sunglasses.
My family sits in a separate pew.
Well, it is going to be a week of quiet time. You know, quiet reflection, time out of the spotlight, time to really knock the work out, here at home.
But what it really is?
It is a time to be narcissistically self-obsessed. I take 100 photos of myself (I can’t bear to use the term “selfie” here) and text them to my friends saying: I'm so HIDEOUS! Then I run to the mirror 50 times a day to find out what on earth is happening NOW.
What IS happening now you might ask?
After four days of regret and fear and loathing…
I have a skin like a baby’s bottom. Hopefully minus the mess you usually find on said bottom.
Signed, Greta Garbo – For a week!