CONFESSION: I could spend all day everyday looking at my magnified face, finding something or other to pick. My husband has many interesting hobbies – basketball, biking, hiking – and he spends much of his down time bettering himself by reading nonfiction and keeping up with current events. I, on the other hand, prefer to spend the few hours I have sans kids literally and figuratively magnifying my flaws and obsessing over my imperfections. I have sadly been blessed with good skin, which means I usually have to work hard to find things to pick and pop. Luckily, hair grows dark and thick almost everywhere on my body, so there is no shortage of things to pluck. There’s something so peaceful, so thoroughly satisfying about emptying that perfect blackhead. It is, indeed, a rare treat when my husband agrees to let me pick HIS blackheads. Now that’s true love. But when he doesn’t, and when my perfect skin isn’t cooperating with my picking needs, I have in the past resorted to pimple-popping videos on YouTube which are simultaneously the fuel for my nightmares and the realization of my fantasies…I’m just going to say it: Facials sort of suck. Basically there’s nothing a facialist (is that the right term?) can do that I couldn’t do myself. Really it’s just a glorified face wash. With lots of steam and heat and other stifling bells and whistles. The spa music is nice though. And when they tell you to strip down to what you’re comfortable in – what exactly does that mean? They provide you with a robe, but should you keep your underwear on? Probably. It’d be a red flag if a facialist wanted to massage anything in that general area. And please explain why anyone enjoys having their face wrapped in hot, wet towels? Are you telling me others DON’T worry that if the aesthetician so desired she could easily kill you? Suffocation. The perfect crime. Hard to find inner peace in this Sweeney-Todd-like scenario. And obviously that’s what those heated mitts are for: less struggle on your part when she goes in for the kill, armed with those scary tubes of hot steam…I’ve been Frida for Halloween 3-4 times. It’s the easiest costume for me to pull off. All I have to do it not “take care” of my facial hair for a week or so and, BOOM, Frida! I first realized this talent of mine while watching Salma Hayek embody this trailblazer one lonely night in high school. I’m not sure what possessed me, but I finished the movie, sat down in front of the mirror and drew in a unibrow (right where I had removed one just hours earlier). I threw on a fuchsia scarf and promptly woke my mother up to take a picture, which I’m still proud to display over my desk.

Published by imworriedmytherapisthatesme

I'm a history-PhD-turned-stay-at-home-mom of three. When I'm not microwaving Trader Joe's meals for my kids, breaking up fights and wiping butts, I like to paint and write. To cope with the endless hours I'm spending with my son doing virtual school, I've abandoned my gouache paints for the more portable, less messy tried but true, paper and ink. While he learns to read to 20 floating heads on his screen, I sit on a tiny chair, at a tiny table pretending to be a productive adult.

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