They say pain is beauty. They say right.
I went for my second chemical peel today and left writhing in such agony that I thought I had to share it with you, dear readers, for as they say – a problem shared is a problem halved right?
For those who don’t know, a Chemical peel involves walking into a Dermalogica and OPI scented spa, being greeted by a generally prissy owner slash receptionist. Then, while lying face up on a very comfortable bed, and drifting off to the sound of mating sperm whales and Enya a friendly beautician tells you to lie back, close your eyes and “just relax” before pouring what feels like volcanic larvae on your face. At this point my eyes are scrunched up like a newborn fresh from the womb, my fingernails cutting into my hands so hard I’m bleeding all over the Calibri towelled bedding and my face, is now on fire, literally. I’m convinced the red mood lighting is in fact the flames licking at the ceiling.
It’s at this point that the sweet beautician is possibly curled up in the corner of the room laughing hysterically at my screams and pleas to just “let this hell end and kill me now”. Maybe it’s sympathy or the sight of my tears ruining her perfectly applied death cream on my skin but she finally turns on an industrial sized fan (possible stolen from the inside of a Boeing 777) and blasts its coolness mercifully on my face. Finally, after what feels like a multiple birth sans anesthetic, the pain subsides and the fan gets switched off. I sniff back the snot, tears and manage a feeble “am I dead yet” before she utters the words I never hoped to hear: “lie still sweetie, we’re doing a double layer today”.
