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Let's Talk Razor Burn.

...Because Then She Shaved My Face...

If you want a detailed list of the cosmetic procedures I've done to look baby-face fresh, you'll have to read my memoir. Or at least skip to that chapter. Oh wait, details are sprinkled throughout. In that case, feel free to skim-read—though, you would be missing out on plenty of shits and giggles-snorts. Just sayin' ... 

Just sayin'. Who else dislikes that saying? Riiight? (And that one.) And yet it slips out, not unlike a—I'll skip the innuendo because I'm a grown-up now. Though I can probably give myself one more year. I mean who ends adolescence at 44? OCDness alone begs another year (to make 45), but six is preferable (to round up to an even 50).

Anyway, all that vanity was way back then. I haven't done anything since. (Sideways glance!) I did Botox once. Schucks, a blemish on my otherwise flawless record since those days. Such sticklers, sheesh.

(I just read in the Bible that cursing and swearing are sins. and because I don't even know the diff between the cursing and swearing, I thought I'd better keep my potty mouth to a minimum. I'm not sure how the whole sin-points system works, but I figure I'll save up my cussing for the really important stuff.)

Okay, so referring back to those days, several years ago now, I went to an L.A. cosmetic non-surgeon practitioner—found via Groupon—who gave me a bum on my face. (Thankfully, it was temporary.) As in, he injected my chin with filler to even out the asymmetry. 

Side question: What kind of funny guy is God to give me OCD and a lopsided face?

Though my boyfriend at the time didn't even notice any difference in my chin, I felt like Jim Carrey in the movie Me, Myself and Irene. If you've seen the film, you'll know the scene. 

That was my TSN1 turning point. I quit all the anti-aging BS. And, as is my usual obsession, I went 110% the other way. Au natural. But not bare-ass naked, of course, just bare faced.

For a while, I wore only mascara, and then no makeup at all. I didn't wear deodorant, and I stopped shaving my legs. (The latter was mostly laziness not rebellion.) I ate only organic and even chose an exclusively vegan diet for a while—until kale made my hair fall out. (Long story.) 

Freed from societal standards of beauty, I embraced my liberated hippy lifestyle ...which really means I sunk into depressive lethargy but declaring "hippiness”2 seemed much cooler than accepting Loserville. 

Even my trips to L.A. didn't faze me. Heck, in Venice Beach, hobos and hippies are so alike. 

But, Someone—maybe God—left vanity's gate latch open, and about five months ago ...I got a manicure.

I'll have to have a chat with my naturopath because now that my sluggish thyroid issue (even longer story) is starting to normalize, I've ...started wearing makeup again. And dresses.

And then, just before coming back to California—BAM!—B.o.t.o.x. 12ccs right in the furrow! And I liked it.

But that's it. Nothing more! So far. 

However, I did get an email from Dr. Bum Chin's office offering me a 75% discount on a facial as a Happy Birthday Valued Client gift.

His office is in Beverly Hills, a place I do not go. More plastic than a Pepsi-bottling factory, and that's just the men. Never mind the women using their men's credit cards.

Nonetheless, the facial spa treatment is such a good deal that I book an appointment.

I arrive at the spa–office in a bohemian chic sundress (read: thrift-store frock) and flop-flips with dirty canvas sack. Because it's a facial, I have no makeup on so I feel extra loser-y. I'm pretty sure the receptionist is wearing Prada along with no small amount of puttied face paint.

I think, This is so not me ... anymore.

I can't bail because I'm here. And my car is in the valet-only parking garage, and it's $2 per 15 minutes. And what the heck do you tip a valet on $2, people? Plus, the time to get here, blah blah, blah. I feel invested.

The Spa Manager (Chanel suit, pretty sure) escorts me to her polished, fluorescent office so we can "review my file."

I sit down and notice a hand-drawn sketch on a whiteboard. Follicles and squiggles and such.

Does he do hair restoration, too? I ask

He does. 

One of the drawings looks remarkably like a penis and sperm. I say so. She sort of laughs.

My awkwardness level exponates3

She squints at my file: Oh, wow, you haven't been here in almost, hmm, four years.

I haven't done anything since then. I probably shouldn't be here, but the—I trail off.

Oh, no no no, it's good to touch up ... (something something something), she reassures me. 

This is a regular facial, right? I mean, I'm not going to lose any freckles or colour or anything, right? I actually like them now. On her expression I add, For real.

She's speechless for a moment looking at me like I'm dressed in an Elvis costume.

Oh, no no no, it'll just ... you'll just ...—she stands up, moves to the door—uh, even out skin tone ... 

At the door, she adds, I'll show you to the aesthetician's room.

The room is a typical spa room with spa spot light and magnifying glass for detecting flaws, a spa table with a blanket and heating pad, and various jars and potions. A lady with either an extremely tight ponytail or some serious ccs of botulism in her forehead awaits me. 

I reconfirm about sixteen times: I won't lose my freckles or the tan I've worked so hard to get, right?

She's not sure if I'm joking and, again, I feel totally out of place. I think about how I once thought that altering me was the thing to do. Who was that girl? (Not that I regret it! Can you just imagine what I might look like if I'd done nothing?? I mean, really.)

The treatment is as expected, other than the part where she's wiped off lotion and is now scraping my face with some unknown instrument that feels and sounds like a tiny straight razor. Hold the phone!

But whatever! After she's finished, I look in the hand mirror. My face is baby soft, smooth and taut-shiny—likely from swelling—and I look refreshed and feel relieved that my freckles are still there, so it's all good. Until there's razor burn, people! (Or is it called shaving rash?)

Until there is stubble, fuckersons! Until there is Flintstone fucking stubble, Barnie Rubble!

What have I (re)learned? 4

  1. I'll shave myself if I so choose, thank you so much.
  2. Parking in Beverly Hills cannot be accomplished for under $20. Kaching.
  3. A "good deal" on a facial comes with the (reasonable) expectation of a tip based on the original cost, which is (unreasonably) at least $150. Ka ... Ching!

Homework: Google "facial aftershave for lady birds."


1 The Sports Network

My editor noticed "hippiness" is One letter off from “happiness.” Ironic. (Indeed.)

Exponates should totally be a real word.

4 I had an array of naughty women-shaving-women quips for this, but I've decided to keep it clean. That Bible thing again: not sure where dirty jokes fall on the sin scale.

If you enjoyed this please share the shits and giggle-snorts!

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