facial girly
on beauty, lasers = the very intense, very effective facial treament I had done, & finding love when you look like toast
My face looked like I had rolled it in coffee grounds. I was swollen like a chipmunk with pillowy under-eye bags you could pack a set of lingerie in.
"You look so beautiful" he said dreamily staring at me from across the sofa. This man is clearly insane/in love, I thought to myself, mentally calculating how many more hours until the swelling would subside enough for me to venture out in public again.
The day before I had been to see a dermatologist in Lisbon to get the first of three BBL Forever Young Light Treatment sessions done to treat some stubborn pigmentation that was steadily corralling into a dense forest of shadows on my forehead peaks and jaw-to-neck areas. Think topographical map of the Himalayas, but in various shades of brown.
I had spent my 20s feeling invisible to life's inevitable decomposition running around under an ozone hole in Australia, armed with nothing but youthful invincibility and coconut oil. While I am olive-skinned thanks to my Italian father, I also have a tendency to inconsistent melanin thanks to my Austrian mother - a genetic cocktail that left me with skin that couldn't quite decide what it wanted to be when it grew up.
Freckles are cute but brown patches that shadow the skin less so. Am I needlessly vain? Maybe. I spent the past decade repenting for my sins and trying a range of 'natural' treatments, becoming something of an unwitting guinea pig for every trendy skincare solution that promised salvation.
Vitamin C serums did nothing for me except drain my wallet and stain my pillowcases orange. Nor did Living Libations expensive miracle oil Dew Dab, which only succeeded in making me smell like a hippie's medicine cabinet. Microneedling made my skin plump and luminous but the brown shadows remained, stubbornly unmoved by my thousand tiny sacrificial wounds. Sunscreen kept them in place like a preservative for my shame.
Every summer the freckles on my nose and cheeks deepened which I loved - they gave me that sun-kissed, carefree look I craved. But so did the uneven patches which I hated. They acted as reminders of the lack of care I had for myself and skin once upon a time, like permanent Post-it notes from my younger self saying "Remember when you thought you were invincible?"
When I arrived in Portugal 2.5 months ago I made a promise to finally handle the boring parts of self-care: see a gynecologist for my once-every-10-years checkup (lol, please don't judge, these sorts of things are just not that important to me until they become absolutely necessary), go to the dentist for a clean and to fill two fillings that had fallen and been bothering me (turns out teeth don't actually heal themselves), book in with a dermatologist, get a haircut. You know, all those adult things that pile up while you're busy living life.
At the dermatologist's office he took a scan of my skin murmuring things like "you have very big pores" (thank you, I hadn't noticed them in the mirror I torture myself with daily) and "your skin is inflamed" (a polite way of saying my face looked angry at the world). Then he asked me questions about how I felt about it. I told him about the hyperpigmentation. He told me he had the perfect solution. A series of three BBL Forever Young Light treatments. I told him I'd need to do some research on them and would need to think about it, secretly already knowing I'd say yes. Then I had a hydrafacial (highly recommend) with a wonderful beautician who at 55, could be a walking ad for every treatment in the place. I walked out feeling hydrated, glowy and on a perfect skin high.
That night the man who is now my boyfriend whom I had only met a few times kissed me and on some subconscious level I decided it was because my skin was dewy and delightful like never before. Isn't it funny how we attribute every good thing that happens to whatever we last did to "improve" ourselves?
A few days later I contacted the dermatologist's office and agreed to go ahead with the treatment, my bank account weeping quietly in the corner. To prep I had to put on sunscreen every day twice a day for a month - an Olympic sport level of responsible adulting.
A week before my next appointment I told my new boyfriend "I have to go to Lisbon for an appointment next Friday. Do you want to come?" trying to sound casual while internally drafting contingency plans for how to hide my face from him afterward.
"Of course!" he replied, with the enthusiasm of someone who had no idea what they were signing up for. He blocked out his calendar with a big pink rectangle that said 1ST LISBON DATE, making my heart simultaneously melt and cringe at what was to come.
Inviting him was a mistake.
Wait. I mean. We had a wonderful time!
We went to a secret magical cafe in a Theatre overlooking the city (the kind of place that makes you feel like you're in a Wes Anderson film) and ate delicious fried tofu ramen at Panda Cantina and walked through the Christmas markets, our hands intertwined like we'd been doing this forever. Then we parted ways while I went to my appointment and he sat in a cafe eating cake and reading Murakami's latest book, living his best main character life while I went off to voluntarily torture myself.
It's the moments after this that I regret.
I had no idea what I was about to put myself through. In retrospect, this is probably why they make you sign waivers - to prevent people like me from dramatically declaring "Nobody told me it would be like this!" afterward.
First I signed said waiver, which I did not read, because I was already there and going to do it so why should I read it (future me would like to have a word with past me about this decision). And then I was walked into a sterilized room that looked like a cross between a spa and a sci-fi movie set, laid on a table and tucked in with blankets like a beauty treatment burrito.
Then the beautician silently spread some clear gel all over my face - cold, thick, and abundant enough to make a slug feel at home. She placed tiny speed racing goggles over my eyes that made me feel like a very small, very nervous Formula 1 driver. "Tell me if it hurts too much," she says with the casual tone of someone who's about to do something that definitely hurts. "How much is too much?" I ask, already regretting every life choice that led me here. "So much that you can't stand it." "Ok" I mumble from underneath a pound of gel, wondering if it's too late to make a run for it.
She begins, zapping at specific areas. I smell hair, singed and burnt - my own hair. She finds another tool and runs it across every part of my face, concentrating on the pigmented areas. It stings like angry bees doing the cha-cha on my face. She returns to zapping specific areas. And continues alternating back and forth for an hour, which feels like approximately seven years in beauty treatment time.
It's not comfortable but it's also not unbearable, like a really intense game of "how much do you want perfect skin?" I try to focus on staying relaxed, mentally reciting my skincare mantras: "Beauty is pain," "No pain no gain," and "Why did I do this to myself?"
At the end she softly whispers "All done!" and unwraps me like a Christmas present that's been returned slightly damaged. As she walks me back to the reception she asks me how my skin feels. "Spicy!" I reply, meaning like I've just french-kissed a volcano. She looks at my face more closely and excitedly says "You have the perfect skin for this treatment! All the hyperpigmentation is going to get much much darker over the next few days. And then fall off. I can't wait to see the results!" Her enthusiasm would be contagious if my face wasn't currently hosting its own personal inferno.
I text my boyfriend. I'm so sorry. I'm done now. The appointment had run late. What I really meant was "Please still love me even though I look like I've been slow-roasted over a BBQ."
Outside I feel foolish and embarrassed, like a child who's been caught trying on their mother's makeup - except the makeup is my actual face and it's screaming for help. I don't want him to see me like this. He remains tactful and kind and orders us an Uber home, pretending not to notice that I'm trying to hide behind my hair like a sheepish sheepdog.
The next day, sitting on the sofa across from him, forcefully resisting my desire to run home, to not be seen by the man that I want to be cute and pretty and attractive in front of, he reassures me that with or without the treatment he loves me and thinks I am beautiful. And in that moment, I realise that maybe the real treatment wasn't the laser at all, but learning to be seen at my worst and still feel loved.
The days following occur exactly as the beautician suggested. The redness and swelling disappeared, the dark shadows became darker - making me look like I'd tried to apply self-tanner with my eyes closed - I wore sunglasses whenever we went out and hid myself indoors as much as I could, until finally a week later a new skin emerged, like a butterfly from a very expensive chrysalis.
Tiny invisible pores! Zero pigmentation! Even skin tone! Baby soft! No need to wear makeup ever again! It was like someone had hit the reset button on my face, erasing a decade of sun damage and poor life choices.
It was a miracle. An expensive, slightly painful miracle, but a miracle nonetheless.
I never expected the treatment to be so effective. And it's only the first of three. (My wallet quietly sobs in the corner.)
I fought with my vanity and insecurities and the shame I had around having vanity and insecurities - that peculiar modern paradox of wanting to look perfect while pretending not to care about looking perfect. I battled with being seen at my worst. I faced unexpected pain. And was rewarded with a 10-year dream: perfect skin. Or at least, perfect enough to make peace with the imperfect journey that got me here.
As it turns out, sometimes the path to self-acceptance involves a few laser beams and a very understanding boyfriend.
What is the name of this treatment please 🙏🏻