Having deliberated for some time on the merits of having 'a little help' managing the ageing process, I finally succumbed a week ago. I really should have known better. The last time I tried something new to enhance my features, it was the disturbingly named Brazilian. This is a hair treatment (as opposed to a painful waxing process) that is supposed to provide luscious locks for up to three months without the hassle of a blow dry. The downside - you have to leave it on for three days to allow the treatment to work. Net result: I spent three days as a dead ringer for an Afghan hound.
Treatment day dawns. I have chosen laser which will apparently zap away at my epidermis and, after a short recovery period, provide me with smoother skin. I lie down and am provided with black-out goggles. The treatment begins and I wonder if my sense of smell should have been addressed rather than my sight. The odour assailing my nostrils would have Hannibal Lecter reaching enthusiastically for fava beans and chianti. It is the smell of my burning skin.
The treatment ends, medicated camouflage make-up is applied and I am told to walk around in the cold air for a bit. I wander aimlessly and tentatively head into a store for a browse. The gust of hot air that hits my face knocks me sideways and I retreat rapidly. Although not before espying a couple of dresses that I think would be lovely for the summer. Even in extremis....
Day 1. A fairly uneventful day except for the fact that my skin is now very tight. I am not allowed to remove the make-up and it provides something of a barrier between me and the outside world.
Day 2. I am allowed to remove the make-up, except it doesn't want to come off. I am left with skin that is starting to peel and is now covered with a sort of yellowish tinge. I get on the tube and pray for invisibility. An American woman gets on and proceeds to talk very loudly to her child. No-one can escape the conversation. I look up and catch the eye of a young man next to me. We share a tiny second of mutual "what can you do?" and he then takes in my face, and recoils. I try to provide a reassuring smile however my skin is now so tight that all I can do is bare my teeth. The man recedes further and I hang my head in shame.
Day 3. In an attempt to mitigate the stares I am receiving, I decide to address things head on. I say "Oh, I'm so sorry about my face, I've just had laser". Everyone, bar none, replies "Oh, I hadn't noticed, you look absolutely fine". I become paranoid. I look like an extra from The Mummy and everything thinks I look normal. What on earth did I look like before?
Days 4-5. Panic is setting in. My face is red, sore and peeling. We have a photo-shoot booked at work for our new website photos. They are looking for a new image. I wonder whether this image could include a hat with a veil.
Day 6. Photo-shoot day. Thankfully my skin is virtually back to normal. I walk in and say to the photographer that I am really sorry but I had laser done and so could he possibly do some touching up of my photo to accommodate this. He looks up from his light machine, looks at my face and replies "Oh, I'd have done some work on your photos anyway."
So, that was money well spent then.
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