Even though it felt like the skin was melting off my face, the doctor urged me not to move. I obeyed tersely as his assistant blew blistering cold air onto my face from what looked like a make-shift hose. I had a really bad feeling about the entire situation and not just because of the pain.
Despite the airy classical music, expensive throw pillows, yummy green tea and thorough questionnaire on the history of my skin that I had just filled out, the equipment the doctor and said assistant were using to perform a “new-ground-breaking-medical-peel” was so rudimentary, it looked as if it had just been wedged out of a ’57 Chevy pick-up truck. It definitely wasn’t something you’d expect to see at a sophisticated, therapeutic spa (which the place touted itself to be.)
I gutted out the pain and bad feeling, though, mainly because the doctor, the procedure and the place had come so highly recommended. For the record, not only was it one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done, I would end up paying for the decision, or lack thereof, for a really long time.
Over the next few days, my pretty pale skin lost its luster, peeled off and gave way to a speckling of dark brown patchy spots all over my face. The worst of it was on my upper lip, scattered around my cheeks and at the very top of my forehead. The spots eventually melded together and turned into something called hyper-pigmentation.
I can’t even begin to tell you the amount of grief and sadness I felt after this botched beauty procedure. I think the worst part was, I had gone to the so-called “therapeutic spa” because I had just suffered a very traumatic personal loss and all I wanted was to feel better. A pick me up. Instead, I ended up feeling worse. Horrible, actually. What’s more, I had also ruined one of the few good things I had going for me, great skin. It was officially “The Dark Spot on Beauty.”