When a large and heavily accented woman calls you “old” and tells you it’s time to begin using eye cream, you have no choice but to fall to your knees and accept your fate.
“No more just soap and moisture…now you must tone, hydrate, exfoliate, and NIGHT cream…don’t forget NIGHT cream.” You’re half expecting her to advise vodka as well…
Night cream? My grandmother used Night cream…there is no way I’m…..
When she hints that the “young ladies” in your husband’s office have skin like angels and you “are not young any longer, and must take measures now,” you graciously accept her stinging, burning, magical peel and praise her Eastern European ways. All while some annoying Yanni pings in the background.
She will slap a gob of a wet, thick, gel like substance on your wrinkles and use words like “anti-aging” while she, in broken english, talks of hiding those “hideous” bags and “build up” from years of interrupted sleep and Hot Wheels to the face.
She’ll scrub, scuff, buff, puff, steam, smack, extract, hydrate, and pull. She will show you no mercy, despite your timid mention of being here to “relax.” The Yanni. Make it stop. Am I in hell?
In your mind you will curse her, the entire time re-running Rocky IV in your head and it’s scenes with the freak that got all nasty with Flavor Flav and Drago. The Hun is now demanding you begin microdermasomethingoranother as soon as possible, it is, after all, your only real shot at any hope of keeping a fresh and dewy face.
She asks you something about a tinted sunscreen and lip gloss and you’re nodding your head just to get the hell out of there. Lady you can make me look like a Russian mail order bride, just let me the fuck off this table.
FINALLY the pain has ended and you spring up to dress, only to find your dominatrix shoving a mirror in front of you and coaxing you to “see now, you see how you now look young and beautiful, not like a middle aged mother.”
You grab the mirror while clutching the front of your spa gown, only to find she has already taken the robe off the back of the door, opened it like a Southern gentleman, and reaches to tug your gown off while putting an arm through the terry cloth.
But nearly naked and somewhat slippery you no longer care…
“Holy…no…wait…hey…but…”
“Yes, I say…you beautiful now, no wrinkle…see?”
“Yes, I do see….that is AMAZING!”
Beaming and glowing you arrive home with your bag of night cream, eye cream, lip gloss, eye gel, tinted sunscreen, and a promise to start microdermawhatever-that she told you was “like a sandpaper fast on your skin” -very soon.
I wonder if she babysits too.
***updated with photo goodness…make fun of me and I’ll deck you.
