I admit it, what the laser guy told me zapped my spirit a little. And (gasp!) made me question my MAC lipstick.

Once upon what seems like eons ago, I loved being pregnant. I loved feeling the stirring and seeing the feet move across my belly. I loved knowing my body was capable of growing a brain. My whole life I'd known I was going to be a mother, and when it was happening, I loved the anticipation of what would come next.

What I didn't love was smelling the garbage can from my kitchen a mile away. I didn't love taking seven steps to turn over in bed or needing to be hoisted when I got lost in couch. I didn't love how crabby I got when everyone else had a cocktail and energy and crazy sex and feet that fit in shoes when my body felt like more child than woman.

I also didn't love the rashy skin condition I developed when the hormones and increased blood supply overtook the oxytocin EEEEE of being pregnant. I've made my way through three dermatologists and every skin-peeling potion they could prescribe, an ayuvedic skin guru and basket full of supplements, oils and herbs that she advised. I've gone rogue in Sephora, the drug store aisle and even online. Nothing has made this rash go away and every time it returns, it scars my arms and back.

Badge of honor? My ass.   

I want this rash to be gone once and for all. Five years later, I long to stop the itching and put an end to the pinky-red-splotchy embarassment. And so I pulled out the big guns and went to see a laser specialist.

I've seen him before. He is a kind man with a thick Middle Eastern accent and a soft voice and sweet smile. I saw him two years ago when he told me it was the only way to cure the condition as well as clear all the scarring. I felt hopeful. And then I almost fell out of the weird vinyl reclining table when he told me how much each of the eight to ten treatments would cost. I nodded my head, thanked him for his time and said there was no way I could afford it. He nodded in response and told me to come back when I could.

Now, in an effort to be good to myself and kind to my weary body, I've gone back. I am two sessions in and I see a difference. I feel even more hopeful than I did a couple of years ago and so much more better than I did when I thought I'd itch my skin away eventually in a dermatological nightmare of subcutaneous proportions or just buck up and wear long sleeves the rest of my days.

The kind doctor is still kind. Now that he is applying cold gel and pin-prick laser wands to my body, I see him closer. I've noted the dimple in his left cheek and the other one in his chin. I've seen the long lashes and big bushy eyebrows...and ears...and even nose. I don't tell you this in judgment. I say it to illustrate that he has also seen me this close.

Just in case I wasn't aware I had a partner in all this up-close observation, he made it clear this week, giving me the squinty eyes and scanning my face. I was trying not be fixated on his ear lobes (ack) when I realized he had a hypothesis of his own.

"Maybe you should not wear so much make-up," he said confidently but quietly. And then a bit louder to really drive home the notes he took from inches away while burning off my flesh one millisomething of red light at a time. "It's going to clog your pores, so yes...Miss Ashley, you should wear less make-up!"

It wasn't a prescription really, or even more of his kind advice for caring for my healthier skin. It was a proclamation. From the man with the shrubbery bursting forth from his ear canals.

I smiled and said "OK" or something similarly passive, but inside I was gasping at the horror of it.

Sure, as my world has changed this year, as my body has changed and as I am rediscovering what I put forth as I was through my new life, I've been wearing more make-up. I've been playing with navy eyeshadow and delight in wearing this deliciously gothy red Mac lipstick I used to reserve only for special occasions. But too much?!

Oh no. Could the round, hairy laser man be right? Could I be a kitty Christmas sweatshirt and pair of printed leggings away from What Not To Wear? Have my grrrlfriends been shaking their heads and speaking quietly about the liquid eyeliner abominations that surely must be a direct result of divorce proceedings when they really want to shake the cakey concealer right off of me?

Please, god of all thinks cheeky and shimmery and mineral powered, don't let him be right on this. Let him wield his laser wand masterfully until the red rashiness disappears for good but all the red lipstick stays.

Could a laaaaser doctor possibly be the best person to judge my face, whether it is dermatological or Clinique-al? Or is this just a case of a cosmetic surgeon taking the cosmetic part to a whole 'nother level?

If it is...ohhh, if it is true that I am giving way too many layers of paint to the barn, can the laser man throw that massive erasure in for free?

If it is true, I thought I was slightly elevating the hotness but I was really just boosting the hooch. Damn.

Comments

[Sarah]

Listen, Miss Ashley, mineral powder is GOOD for your skin...just ask Leslie! Keep piling it on, honey!