“Life is pain, princess. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” – The Princess Bride
Just how much pain are you willing to endure if it meant saving your life? How much pain and suffering can you take if you’d look better after it was all over? It’s always fascinated me that most people are willing to endure incredible pain, all in the name of beauty. From plastic surgery to bikini waxes, it’s almost become acceptable, understandable even, that we must go through some pain before we achieve our beauty-related dreams.
I was recently in a bit of pain after a completely un-enjoyable visit to the Dermatologist. I can’t say that visiting any doctor is ever enjoyable per se, but the Derm tops my list as least likeable individual who holds a doctoral degree. I’m what those in the business refer to as a “high risk” individual, what with my blue eyes, light complexion and propensity for freckle accumulation. Additionally, I have a family history that isn’t so favorable in the skin department.
I generally approach these yearly visits with disdain, but I was particularly peeved on this occasion. The only Dermatologist I’ve ever loved recently moved to Miami, Florida and I was “stuck” with her replacement. Things were off to a horrible start when she swung the exam room door open wide, revealing me and my undergarment-only clad self with nothing but a horrendous, still-folded paper gown to hide behind. “We’re all girls, who cares?!?” she screamed loudly when I exclaimed I wasn’t quite ready.
After giving me the once-over, she proceeded to say incredibly obvious things like:
“Wow, you have a lot of freckles.”
“You’re really tiny.”
“You’re definitely someone who should be going to the Dermatologist every year.”
“You should stay out of the sun.”
As if the barrage of obvious and body-conscious inducing questions wasn’t enough, she began using scientific terms to explain everything.
Doctor: “I see here that you were on Isotretinoin.”
Me: [Silence, perplexed look]
Doctor: “Accutane?”
Me: “Oh, yes.”
It reminds me of an episode of The Office, where Michael tells everyone to report to the conference “RNDT,” which no one understands. So, he has to take the time to explain that RNDT means “right now, double time, which is twice as fast as normal.” He proceeds to cut Jim off before he has a chance to explain it would have been faster to just say what he meant, rather than using a term that no one could possibly understand. I guess my new doctor isn’t a big fan of the show.
Upon inspection of my many, many moles and freckles she found a specimen on my left arm that was either melanoma or “traumatized in its youthful growing stage.” What? After some numbing, she sliced it off, cauterized my skin (gross) and sent it off to the lab for testing. Turns out it was one of those moles that was beaten as a child, not the cancerous variety. Trading a weird freckle that is possibly skin cancer for a circular-shaped scar seems like a somewhat even trade to me. Besides, it will be in good company with the circular scars that currently reside on my neck, right thigh, back and foot.
After the old “once-over” was complete, she pointed out another obvious character flaw I possess in addition to my moles and small frame: oily skin. This affliction, she explained, was why I had zits, oversized pores and other unsavory issues on my face area. She prescribed Tazorac, a topical cream for my face that comes with a major caveat: pain and unattractive side effects before the real magic happens.
I’ve been on this medication before and stopped using it because of this very side effect. The main purpose of this great cream is “cell regeneration,” AKA all your skin drying up, peeling off and revealing smooth, baby skin underneath. It’s a prescription-strength acne and wrinkle prevention medication—and it really works. Just a pea-sized amount every night over the world’s most awesome lotion, Cera Ve, does the job.
One of the only redeeming phrases my doctor uttered during our visit was that every woman in America should be on this medication. Twenty years from now, she urged, I will look like a million bucks because I use Tazorac. I’m supposed to remember this when I’m feeling as though my face is burning off. “I can always spot a woman who is on a prescription Retin-A product,” she said. “They have beautiful, glowing skin regardless of age.” In the end, I’m told, you have amazing skin. In the meantime, I realize, things are getting ugly in horrendous horror movie-like phases.
Phase 1: Burn, baby burn: The first few days of application made me look and feel like I had bad sunburn. A bad, splotchy and uneven sunburn all over my face, to be exact. Or, a red mask made of fire ants permanently affixed to my face area. Smiling and laughing were a painful task and there wasn’t enough foundation and concealer in the world to make my skin look normal. All the lotion in the world couldn’t take away the pain either; it was just me and my flaming face.
Phase 2: Skin goatee: Much like typical sunburn after a few days, my special burn also had the same result: peeling skin. On my chin, around my nostrils and on my right jaw—like I had facial hair and boogers made of skin flakes. All the lotion and St. Ives Apricot Scrub in the world couldn’t get rid of the flakes that fell onto my shirt every time I touched my face. My face dandruff, though not painful, made me stand out in the crowd—but not in the way I’d always hoped. The worst of the worst arrived on a day where I had back to back meetings, one of which made me the center of attention during an hour-long presentation. Thankfully, I only realized the true horridness of my face after the meeting was over. I wonder if my audience thought I had been prescribed Testosterone, not Tazorac.
Phase 3: What lies beneath: After the burning and peeling, I moved swiftly along to the phase where the medication brought up all the junk lurking in my pores. For those of you who aren’t well versed in the “zit process,” when the junk in your pores comes to the surface, you have a zit. Imagine all the junk in your pores all coming up at once. A good way to imagine that is to pretend that you’re in junior high again. At least I don’t have braces anymore.
Phase 4: The good stuff: After weeks of pain and lots of embarrassing flakiness, my face and I were both ready to give up the fight. Seriously, how much pain and unsightliness can a girl and her forehead take? Our patience was handsomely rewarded when a new face began to emerge. It was subtle, but noticeable to me as the zits slowly healed and the pores began to shrink. The journey was long and painful, but easily forgotten with clear skin and an increasingly positive outlook on life.
The lesson in all of this? If you want something great, you’re going to have to endure some pain to get it. Or, a grow a beard made of peeling skin.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Hairy Situation
I’m currently growing my hair out, which is possibly the hardest task I’ve ever undertaken. Since birth, my hair has always played a major role in my life. That role has always been that of the villain. Each stage of my life seems to be marked by my hairstyles—or lack thereof.
As a child, I had really blonde, curly hair. My hair furled itself into curly, springy ringlets that bounced as I ran through the yard as a toddler. When it came time for kindergarten, brightly colored plastic barrettes were the only thing that could tame my thick and still curly, sometimes tangled mane. The smell of Johnson & Johnson No More Tangles still sets fear into my heart. Upon my first trip to the hairdresser, my mother presented me and my crazy hair and asked, “Can you do something with this?” I wore those barrettes for a long, long time.
In the fourth grade, I decided it would be fashion-forward to have short hair. That is quite possibly the worst decision I’ve made to date. I’ll never forget looking up at the salon mirror and holding back my tears; I looked horrible. My mother would shove my head under the faucet each morning in a feeble attempt to request behavior from my “devil-may-care” hair. My bad choice eventually grew out to chin length, creating a fabulous triangle shape with pointy sides. Hello, frizz!
In the history of my hair, my crowning glory as the Queen of Bad Hair Choices truly came to fruition in high school. I grew my frizzy mane out and hadn’t the slightest clue how to blow dry, condition and straighten it. It took hours to dry completely. It was, as they say, a hot mess. I also cut my own bangs, generously applied hairspray for a crunchy affect and separated them into three sections on either side. The overall look was big frizz with two claws on my forehead---if I didn’t have the photographic proof, I myself might not believe it was possible. After that horrendous decision, I went back to what was once another bad choice; short hair.
This time, it wasn’t an afro. It was flattering and easy for a year or two before I again became tired of the shortness. I ventured into chin-length territory, using my trusty curling iron to flip out the ends a la Farrah Fawcett.
These days, I’m using my freckles as goals for hair length (I knew they were good for something) and practicing the great art of patience on a daily basis. I’ve surpassed the awkward “in-between” stage and have evolved to another oddity—having hair that is exactly the same length as your shoulders and is closely infringing on the collarbone. Most days, I just give in to the fact that my hair wants to flip out on either side and won’t give into my ever-weakening will. I have the next freckle mile marker on my chest all picked out; everyone needs something to shoot for, right?
Truly the best part about growing out one’s hair is the incredible cost savings. At least that’s what my coupon-loving husband would tell you. As a shorthaired girl, haircuts at least every other month were a must. As someone who is attempting to grow our their hair, I’ve evolved to visiting my hairstylist just four times a year for trims, touchups and the latest gossip. All this has been made possible by another major life-altering choice: going au natural with my hair color. While being a blonde was great, I felt it was time to move on from the color I’ve forced my hair to be since the 7th grade. Sure, my roots still grow out, but I don’t look like I’m lost in the 80’s when they do. Today, I’m a light brown with lighter brown and darker blonde highlights and when things start to grow out, it takes a sharp eye to notice.
Along the way, I’ve realized an incredibly important lesson: if you’re going to fight your hair to do something that isn’t natural, you’d better be fully prepared. Preparation, unfortunately, means that I have to invest in non-drugstore, quality products. After running the gamut from cheap drugstore finds to luxe salon-only items, the latter wins. They just work better and when you’ve got hair like mine, it becomes worth the investment.
When it comes to shampoo and conditioner, anything on sale made for color protected or frizzy hair will do; I can’t say I’m all that picky. When it comes to finishing products, however, I can’t live without my upper-crust stand-bys:
My weekly deep conditioning treatment:
Oscar Blandi Trattamento Di Jasmine Smoothing Hair Treatment
For a weekly deep conditioning treat, my hair LOVES this stuff. It deep conditions, softens and smoothes like nobody’s business. I apply it in the shower after I shampoo and leave it in as long as possible, then wash it out when I’m finished. It really does wonders when left on for an extended amount of time with a hot towel on your head, too. I take any opportunity to put a damp towel in the microwave and pretend I’m at the spa. Rumor has it Kelly Ripa is a fan—just look at her hair!
What I apply to wet hair before blow-drying:
Paul Mitchell Super Skinny Serum
My hairdresser got me hooked on this stuff back when I had shorter hair. It gives my hair great shine and some great protection from the blow-dryer and straighter, as I use both every day. I apply this to my damp hair, let the hair air dry for a bit and then blow it dry.
What I apply after blow-drying:
Frederic Fekkai Glossing Cream
This stuff is a desert oasis for my hair. Made with pure olive oil, this stuff provides some serious moisture reinforcement. All you need is a pea sized amount (any more and your hair gets a bit greasy, what with the olive oil component) and the frizzies just melt away. I rub it over my ends after I finish blow drying and I wake up with better behaved hair. It’s pricey, but you use so little that a big tube lasts a long time.
The truth of the matter is, when it comes to my hair nothing is ever as it seems. I’m still fending off the day where I decide I’ve had enough of being patient and decide a shorter ‘do is just “me.” In the meantime, I’m still shooting for that freckle-sized goal on my chest. Grow, baby grow.
As a child, I had really blonde, curly hair. My hair furled itself into curly, springy ringlets that bounced as I ran through the yard as a toddler. When it came time for kindergarten, brightly colored plastic barrettes were the only thing that could tame my thick and still curly, sometimes tangled mane. The smell of Johnson & Johnson No More Tangles still sets fear into my heart. Upon my first trip to the hairdresser, my mother presented me and my crazy hair and asked, “Can you do something with this?” I wore those barrettes for a long, long time.
In the fourth grade, I decided it would be fashion-forward to have short hair. That is quite possibly the worst decision I’ve made to date. I’ll never forget looking up at the salon mirror and holding back my tears; I looked horrible. My mother would shove my head under the faucet each morning in a feeble attempt to request behavior from my “devil-may-care” hair. My bad choice eventually grew out to chin length, creating a fabulous triangle shape with pointy sides. Hello, frizz!
In the history of my hair, my crowning glory as the Queen of Bad Hair Choices truly came to fruition in high school. I grew my frizzy mane out and hadn’t the slightest clue how to blow dry, condition and straighten it. It took hours to dry completely. It was, as they say, a hot mess. I also cut my own bangs, generously applied hairspray for a crunchy affect and separated them into three sections on either side. The overall look was big frizz with two claws on my forehead---if I didn’t have the photographic proof, I myself might not believe it was possible. After that horrendous decision, I went back to what was once another bad choice; short hair.
This time, it wasn’t an afro. It was flattering and easy for a year or two before I again became tired of the shortness. I ventured into chin-length territory, using my trusty curling iron to flip out the ends a la Farrah Fawcett.
These days, I’m using my freckles as goals for hair length (I knew they were good for something) and practicing the great art of patience on a daily basis. I’ve surpassed the awkward “in-between” stage and have evolved to another oddity—having hair that is exactly the same length as your shoulders and is closely infringing on the collarbone. Most days, I just give in to the fact that my hair wants to flip out on either side and won’t give into my ever-weakening will. I have the next freckle mile marker on my chest all picked out; everyone needs something to shoot for, right?
Truly the best part about growing out one’s hair is the incredible cost savings. At least that’s what my coupon-loving husband would tell you. As a shorthaired girl, haircuts at least every other month were a must. As someone who is attempting to grow our their hair, I’ve evolved to visiting my hairstylist just four times a year for trims, touchups and the latest gossip. All this has been made possible by another major life-altering choice: going au natural with my hair color. While being a blonde was great, I felt it was time to move on from the color I’ve forced my hair to be since the 7th grade. Sure, my roots still grow out, but I don’t look like I’m lost in the 80’s when they do. Today, I’m a light brown with lighter brown and darker blonde highlights and when things start to grow out, it takes a sharp eye to notice.
Along the way, I’ve realized an incredibly important lesson: if you’re going to fight your hair to do something that isn’t natural, you’d better be fully prepared. Preparation, unfortunately, means that I have to invest in non-drugstore, quality products. After running the gamut from cheap drugstore finds to luxe salon-only items, the latter wins. They just work better and when you’ve got hair like mine, it becomes worth the investment.
When it comes to shampoo and conditioner, anything on sale made for color protected or frizzy hair will do; I can’t say I’m all that picky. When it comes to finishing products, however, I can’t live without my upper-crust stand-bys:
My weekly deep conditioning treatment:
Oscar Blandi Trattamento Di Jasmine Smoothing Hair Treatment
For a weekly deep conditioning treat, my hair LOVES this stuff. It deep conditions, softens and smoothes like nobody’s business. I apply it in the shower after I shampoo and leave it in as long as possible, then wash it out when I’m finished. It really does wonders when left on for an extended amount of time with a hot towel on your head, too. I take any opportunity to put a damp towel in the microwave and pretend I’m at the spa. Rumor has it Kelly Ripa is a fan—just look at her hair!
What I apply to wet hair before blow-drying:
Paul Mitchell Super Skinny Serum
My hairdresser got me hooked on this stuff back when I had shorter hair. It gives my hair great shine and some great protection from the blow-dryer and straighter, as I use both every day. I apply this to my damp hair, let the hair air dry for a bit and then blow it dry.
What I apply after blow-drying:
Frederic Fekkai Glossing Cream
This stuff is a desert oasis for my hair. Made with pure olive oil, this stuff provides some serious moisture reinforcement. All you need is a pea sized amount (any more and your hair gets a bit greasy, what with the olive oil component) and the frizzies just melt away. I rub it over my ends after I finish blow drying and I wake up with better behaved hair. It’s pricey, but you use so little that a big tube lasts a long time.
The truth of the matter is, when it comes to my hair nothing is ever as it seems. I’m still fending off the day where I decide I’ve had enough of being patient and decide a shorter ‘do is just “me.” In the meantime, I’m still shooting for that freckle-sized goal on my chest. Grow, baby grow.
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