I recently had a type of skin resurfacing treatment done to my face. I thought it might be a good idea to get rid of the damage that years of sun–sun-worshipping had done to my skin. I also harbored a secret wish that some wrinkles might disappear with the treatment. One can hope. That was a couple of days ago. Today I look like a nuclear blast hit me. I really hope something magical happens when the redness and scabs disappear.
This is not the first time I’ve held out hope for a miracle. Years ago, after leafing through an old cookbook, I came across a recipe that combined beet juice and yogurt. I applied it on my face to promote a nice pink blush. Fifteen minutes later I glanced up from rinsing in the sink to discover I had turned a deep shade of red. My face changed color. I could have stopped cars with my flashing red hue. Perhaps I might have been a teeny bit allergic to the beet-yogurt combo. Or it could have been that the recipe was actually meant for borscht.
I also once convinced my sisters, who were visiting, to join me in an “organic facial” using eggs from our chickens in the coop. We whipped up some egg whites, applied them to our faces, laid back on the couch, and waited. After about five minutes, I could feel the skin tightening. By the ten-minute mark, my face was stiff. I peeked around to see my sisters peeking back at me. We tried our best not to smile, but the more we tried, the more our stiff faces cracked into splinters of laughter until we were scattering dried egg whites all over the furniture. Our laughter was infectious, and by the end, we looked like lepers. Any skin improvement was likely due to the exercise our facial muscles got that afternoon.
Then there was the time when I bought a Do-It-yourself facial that boasted a combination of fine herbs to tighten and liven the skin. Unfortunately, our young son happened to come in from playing outside just as I was putting the final touches of the green goo on my face. Unwilling to explain my condition, I threw a towel over my head and fled the kitchen. When he caught up with me, he just stared at me in silence.
“What? Why” was all he could stammer.
Peeking out from under the towel, I explained that I was doing it to look beautiful. I detected a look of worry behind his sorrowful gaze when he finally said, “It’s not working Mum.”
That was thirty years ago, and I’m still trying. Today is day three. My face is red, scabby, itchy, and I’m tired of hiding in the house. I’m just hoping the grandkids don’t call.
