Plastic Surgery?

Well, maybe not plastic surgery in the real sense, but it surely is a step in that direction. Since I am a woman of a "certain age" I have been toying with the idea of plastic surgery more and more. My first foray into cosmetic alteration came at an early age, when at the tender young age of 12, my girlfriend and I were lured into a Merle Norman cosmetic store, enticed by the makeup and forbidden cosmetics I wasn't allowed to wear. The sales clerk, a very Ava Gabor type, black hair piled high in a bun, wearing a navy blue dress with white polka dots, shows us the very latest Merle Norman products. It must have been a slow day, when she makes us sit in the high cosmetic chairs in the back of the store, quickly covers us with plastic hair salon capes. We feel excited and thrilled. She puts plastic shower caps over our hair and applies a creamy salve to our faces. At first we're eager to have her do such grown up things, but then something terribly goes wrong, the stinging! Terri looks at me with eyes as wide a saucers. I stare back and mouth "it's burning my face off!" The lady is out front helping a customer while we are left in the back thinking that our faces have melted off. How diabolical! We quickly get out of the chairs and rush to the sink washing the goop off. We run out of the store barely able to contain the silent screams mixed with laughing in our heads. The sales clerk barely noticed us. We run to the bowling alley down the street and head for our favorite hangout, the ladies room. There we inspect our faces in the mirror. In the very dim light of the bathroom, no scars, no burns, no oozing lesions, just soft skin. Relieved that we made it out with our faces in tact, we called for a celebratory purchase of eyeshadow in the dispenser of the ladies room for .50 cents. The eyeshadow is shaped like a golden bullet. Terri buys iridescent blue and I buy green frost (aren't Asians supposed to wear green?). We apply the eyeshadow like experts and then walk out of the ladies room thinking that all eyes on us as we strut our stuff. As we walk out of the bowling alley into the bright midday sunshine, we look at each other and instantly start laughing! The eyeshadow we put on in the dimly lit bathroom looked like a garish frosted blue and green stripes across our eyelids. Ok, so we were no Merle Norman makeup artist. And by the way, I'm thinking as I remember back, it really wasn't stinging at all, our imagination just got away from us.

In my more recent years as my youth disappears and new wrinkles make their home on my face, I am asking myself more and more, what can plastic surgery do for me? I have gone to several plastic surgeons, one in Las Vegas who has even been on the Health Channel doing plastic surgery and has a great reputation. My sister-in-law adores him. He says I have a weak bone structure and my cheeks are falling, no mincing words here. To have a lower eye surgery, (removing bags and tightening skin), lower face lift and neck lift would cost around $11,000. Ouch! Surgery and about two to three weeks recovery time. This plan, no pain no gain.

Plan B, I decide to go to a dermatologist just for a cancer skin check and maybe in the back of my mind I am thinking that the dermo might have some miracle anti-aging remedy up her sleeve. The doctor is a small woman of Indian decent, long thin hair, no make-up, soft sagging skin and terrible taste in clothes, more peasant than doctor. She's a quick fire saleswoman, more saleswoman than doctor. She tells me her course of treatment. First removing the sunspots, which she says for $190.00 she can remove 20-30 spots. This is a good price she exclaims. Round two after two weeks a light chemical peel and face mask followed by two more peels and masks.

I decide to try this line of attack, she has after all convinced me that it's a great deal and will make my skin look so much better, if not younger. Yeah right! I'm thinking a monkey mask would also work. I go in and have my spots zapped. She applies a face numbing cream and then with some electrical cattle prodder zapper thingy, she burns away. I don't feel any pain, except the one time she tried to zap one out of the numb range, that smarts! She says that she actually did about 40 spots and implied that I'm getting more than I paid for. I leave, spots burning and all. I go home and count the spots to verify if she really did 40 spots. I have my husband count and then my daughter count. We all count 41 spots. Ok, so she didn't exaggerate. For the next week I look like I have large brown moles on my face or adult measles, embarrassing! She warns to wear hats and sunscreen to prevent the spots from coming back since the skin has a memory. I run around the market and Home Depot in disguise, no makeup, big floppy hat and sunglasses, looking like I'm ready to rob a bank. The spots crust over and finally drop off. Thank goodness! I anxiously peer into the mirror, the spots look diminished but are still quite pink. Three weeks later, I'm thinking that there are still a good 10-20 more spots that still need to be done. Next it's on to step two, the chemical peel and face mask. I get to her office, on a Saturday, it 's the day she does her cosmetic stuff. I'm ushered into one of the examining rooms and told to wash my face, but keep the washcloth since I will need it later. As you can tell, this is a no frills kind of cosmetic spa. No changing into one of those big fluffy white robes, no terry towel on the hair and no cappuccinos. Here I sit in my street clothes, on a side chair, not even on the examining table (probably saving cost on examining paper cost). With face clean, she comes in checks the sunspots and says my skin looks really good. Her assistant then applies the light chemical peel with a q-tip swab. I'm given a fan to hold on my face, it helps with the burn feeling, uh oh! This is definitely not your Merle Norman! The assistant stays in the room to keep an eye on the redness as she reads a magazine. It's burning and my arm is getting tired of holding the fan. About three minutes later she tells me to wash it off, with the same washcloth that was now in my lap wetting my jeans. I wash it off, no mirror to check the redness. The doctor comes in and examines all the while explaining how this wonderful application is going to help my skin. Next the assistant applies the face mask while I am still sitting in the chair holding the wet washcloth. The mask goes on, she leaves, again I have to hold the fan to my face. For about 20 minutes the mask dries, tightens and my face is throbbing, which brings back the memory of when I saw as a child this horror film about a circus, where the knife thrower's assistant is screaming in front of her dressing mirror crying because her face was cracking. I guess she went to the same dermo!

A throbbing 20 minutes later, I'm told to wash it off. At the checkout, the gay nurse assistant says I look great. How can he tell, with my face red and swollen sans makeup and all? I pay my $160.00 and asked if I would like to make another appointment. Optimum sessions, at least 3. I'm like thinking maybe I should see the results of this one first. I go home, scrutinize myself in the mirror. Skin does looks smoother, maybe a little firmer. Definitely not looking 10 or even 5 years younger as I had hoped. Two months later, I still have not gone back for another treatment, somehow still trying to justify the $160.00 for each time. The doctor's words still come back though, "maintenance for you is very important and we do it much cheaply than most places." You can say that again, no frills for sure, hold your own fan! Maybe I will do it again, after all, it's not so extreme like plastic surgery and in the psyche I feel the mind can and does hopefully trick the eye. -Single D