I went to the dermatologist’s yesterday for my quadri-annual lasering and acid burning.
Is quadri-annual a word?
I don’t care.
And my dermatologist looks like he’s about 10 years old, so I know he must be really, really, good. Who the hell wants an old wrinkly dude helping you give Father Time and Mother Nature the finger?
Not me, Internet.
I’ll take the ten year old, please.
And he’s sooo pleasant too. I sort of just want to piss in his cheerios a little bit because shit. It’s 8am and here I am waiting for him to bring on the burning and the itching and the peeling and the flaking and the redness. I’m not having a lot of what people would call fun.
But I have to go because they have to burn off the sun damage, because I’m such a fair and delicate flower, before it turns to cancer and I look like this:
And every time he comes into the room he says “hey-ho! How we doin’? Still smilin’?” He says it just like that every single time and I can picture him at his graduation from face doctor school thinking that that would be his thing. He may have even practiced it in the mirror while testing out new face cream. And I want to just say something like, “well, to tell you the truth there Shane, that’s his name, Shane, I’d like to burn your face with some acid and see if you’re still smilin’.”
But I don’t try to upset the man because he’s nice, really and also because he’s holding a laser in one hand and a jar of acid in the other and he’s about to go to town on my face.
And so I’m polite and pleasant and hap, hap, happy as can be because “Always be polite to men holding jars of acid” is my motto.
Crissy is not a stupid woman.
And so I look like this right now:
And when the pain and the redness and the flaking and the burning go away I’ll look seconds younger and I’ll be saved from skin cancer and you’ll all be so jealous you could spit!