No I didn’t watch the movie.
I must admit I’m a lot more inclined to watch Till I Met You than that commercial sap. Not that Till I Met You isn’t commercial sap. However, it does star Robin Padilla, my one true Pinoy action star love, so what the hell.
Unfortunately, this post isn’t about Pinoy movies, though that does give an idea for a future post. I digress. I’m pretty much distracted by the upcoming UST-ADMU basketfall do-or-die so pardon the lack of direction. This is what I actually want to say:
Last Saturday, bored and stoned way out of my mind, I decided to do something that heralded my entry into official matronhood: I had facial. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, a facial. I had no idea — and still no really clear understanding — of what a facial’s supposed to do. It’s just that the past few months saw a rather bad case of pimple breakout on my otherwise clean face, and i was running out of options.
All I knew was that a facial was supposed to clean up my face and get rid of acne in a snap. I suppose I was hoping for some sort of miracle, that I would emerge from the clinic with face as bright as Michelle Reis’. That just shows how little I know, I guess.
I stepped into Dermclinic with little apprehension (I actually thought it was Dermstrata - the one a friend had spoken highly of), thinking nothing could go wrong. Nothing did, by the way, so don’t be scared. This is not a horror post, so relax. The receptionist said the doctors were away, so pricking couldn’t be done. I could have a normal facial, though, and so I said yes readily. She started blabbing about some other procedures and additional services, and I numbly said yes. I suppose I was too taken in by the visit that I just stupidly said yes to everything.
I was brought inside and asked to wash my hands and face. How hygienic, I noted, only to find a tiny baby cockcroach scurrying across the mirror.
I stepped into the make-shift room and sat on the bed rather uncomfortably. I hate hospitals, and the bed reminded me of one terribly. The attendant was swift, though, and I was on my back in no time.
I can’t remember each procedure exactly. I know she began by sanding my face with a rather rough brush, then applied some cream and sanded my face again with some smaller brush It’s not so comforting to think of procedures done to my face in carpentry terms, but that’s just the way I think, unfortunately. I remember her giving me a massage, then vacuuming the white and black heads off my face. Cold glop was poured all over my face and allowed to harden. It was supposed to “tighten” my face, she said, and I had no choice but to nod silently, given the situation. I was left alone for a few minutes, with an oxygen tank connected to my nostrils by some tubes. It was flavored, too, though I had some sort of urge to ask her for a “doobie” flavored one. Kidding. Say no to drugs, kids.
The attendant was nice — too nice, I must say. She chatted me up endlessly, and I had no choice but to respond. Told about an impending Baguio trip, she replied cursorily, “ang saya naman!” I swear I could smell the saccharine dripping off her chin.
Sitting in there, I couldn’t help but wax existential. How long has it been seen I last needed a facial? Never. Exactly. I looked at the mirror (unfortunately coming across the baby cockcroach again) and saw not me but a matron. Have I turned into some sort of society clone? God forbid.
I was wrong, though. The facial doesn’t magically turn your face into some sort of chinchansu testimonial. I still don’t look like a porcelain doll. My face is still filled with blemishes — no pricking because there’s no doctor, right? But I did like the pampering a bit, like I had done something decent to my face for once.
I suppose a second facial is in order, around three weeks or less.
What can I say? Vanity? It’s my favorite sin.
