Today I was microdermallyabraded.
I can now reap the benefits of hydrated skin and rebalanced PH levels. When I next look in the mirror (abracadabra) I will see a difference after just one treatment. Outer layers have been gently exfoliated, new collagen increased, and elastin formed to visibly rejuvenate and firm my face and neck.
I deserve it though. I survived the amniotic stupor of the Pink Room and Relaxing Musak and surreal conversations about how my skin had been; how my skin was feeling. What about me? I cried out inwardly. Why does it all have to be about my skin?
I tried self-hypnosis in order to relax amidst the stress of the treatment. But before I had descended five steps down I was distracted by the Musak and wondering how the inane sounds of pan pipes and mindless lapping of water and screeching of gulls ever became the formula for inducing calm on the beauty table.
Trapped under a layer of solidifying rubber, blindfolded by cotton wool, I wondered how I would exit rapidly in the event of an emergency. Every other place these days gives very precise guidance on what to do and where to head for in case of fire. Not microdermalabraders though. There is tacit agreement that if I need to exit urgently, I can forget it.
Trapped in the cause of true beauty.