My Inner Ms. Natural Fought With the Mirror: The Mirror Won
I've accepted that truthfully, despite all the discomfort and the cost, opting for deep laser resurfacing was a good decision for me
As a former quasi-hippie, my annoying inner Ms. Natural urges no cosmetic improvements. She's suffered crushing defeat over the years. I've always wanted to look as attractive as I could. Is this vanity? Probably.
I'd started covering grays in my 20s. In my 40s, I discovered Retinol cream. By my 50s, I was getting light chemical peels.
At age 37, I moved to Baltimore, where I had friends and met my future husband, who was then a freelance tuba player. We graduated to more than friends without exchanging the age data. Maybe because we could tell there was a difference, but we liked each other — a lot — and thought it could be a mere five years. When we discovered it was 11, Brian said, "Why do you care?" Seven months later, we were married.
I'd started covering grays in my 20s. In my 40s, I discovered Retinol cream. By my 50s, I was getting light chemical peels. Ten years later, there was no denying it: I was starting to look older than Brian. He continued to insist such vanity was silly. We had what was important: a solid relationship.
Now or Never
True, but that's never stopped my cosmetic efforts. In later middle age — which I euphemistically consider myself to still be in — I accepted that the camera and mirror were not exaggerating. If I was going to take measures, it was now or never.
The plastic surgeon swept into the examination room. I couldn't see his face through the Covid mask, but the smile was in his eyes. He studied me and asked questions. What, exactly, did I hope to achieve?
"Ten years off this face."
Recommending deep laser resurfacing, he showed me before-and-after photos. The faces looked silkier and tighter but were not dramatically altered, reflecting his aim "to restore lost features of youth in a balanced, natural fashion," he said. I was scared, but reassured by his eight years in shock trauma directing facial reconstruction surgery.
This doctor was also a clinical professor. "Would you be willing to be one of the patients I demonstrate on? It'll be the same, except some medical people will be observing." My husband was a professor. I'd taught as an adjunct. We were all about education. "Absolutely," I said.
"Would you be willing to be one of the patients I demonstrate on?"
A Patient Observed
The demo would take place in the office, and I would not be knocked out as I'd hoped. There was one significant advantage: It would cost $2,000 less. When the day came, I swallowed Oxycodone and Xanax 45 minutes before the appointment, as instructed. About 15 doctors and nurses were going to observe. The surgeon guided me into the room.
The table was blanketed. "See how cozy?" he said. He brushed my back for reassurance and handed me a squeeze button for the nitrous oxide I would control. "Breathe deeply through the nose piece," he said. This worked beautifully.
He moved from one laser type to the next, carving along my face while teaching. I learned that nerve pathways traveled this way or that, forming a web under the skin.
It was fascinating. The airy, slightly sweet smell of nitrous overcame wafts of burning that may have otherwise reached my nose from the laser cutting into my skin. The doctor meticulously reviewed my entire face, even the eyelids and around the lips. I vaguely remember him explaining that it was possible to plump them up, reversing their tendency to thin with age.
The observers asked questions and added comments. "You're doing great," said one, and finally, maybe 45 minutes later, "Almost done." The surgeon worked with the input like an orchestra conductor, hearing the music while continuing his program.
When I dared, I watched through the goggles as he leaned into his craft, hands steady, eyes pinpoint-focused. As the drugged recipient of this medical attention, I could admire the choreography. It went off like a dance. I left looking like a mummy, my head wrapped in gauze.
The next day, we returned so the doctor could reapply the ointment, blanketing my damaged visage. He held up a mirror so I could appreciate that I looked like an accident victim. I had not envisioned bloody streaks. Remain calm.
What had I done? Did I opt to put myself through such an ordeal for the sake of beauty alone?
Time for Reflection
My aghast reaction must have shown anyway. "Remember," the doctor said, "this is only for the first few days. Soak strips of gauze in chilled, diluted apple cider vinegar several times a day. Hold them on your face. This really speeds up the healing." For the next week, those instructions became my way of life.
As I gingerly treated my facial wounds, I had plenty of time for reflection. Searching in the mirror for signs of healing, I saw a damaged landing pad for all the senses. Information from the world entered my system through this airstrip, which sent signals through the interior realm.
My inner Ms. Natural was appalled that I'd never grasped how essential the face was to basic functioning. And I'd led the charge on this beautifully functioning system. What had I done? Did I opt to put myself through such an ordeal for the sake of beauty alone? Because Brian was younger, my vanity, both? Because I did not want to be treated like an old lady before I felt like one? The angst tormented me.
Yet, a short while later, I could confidently say the results were undeniable. Eleven days after the procedure, I restarted my walks. Striding along Back Creek off the Severn River at dawn, I breathed in as much air as my lungs would hold, let it out in stages as the sky brightened over the Chesapeake Bay.
I have more self-confidence, ridiculously or not.
Ducks chattered, sailboat masts clanged in the quiet of an early day. That evening, I made dinner and drank almost an entire glass of wine. Brian and I sat on the balcony. The red skies behind a golden setting sun, this good husband and the fresh air all were a miracle.
Brian admits that I look younger but seems to appreciate who I am more. A few friends have noticed: "You look great!" I thank them, smiling inwardly and offering no details. The mirror still tells me I look older than I'd like, but it's a significant improvement I can maintain.
I have more self-confidence, ridiculously or not. I noticed this a few months ago as Brian and I introduced ourselves to other volunteers at the food pantry in our new area. My instincts were not to try to fade behind him; instead, I felt like my whole self in the present moment — a pleasant surprise.
Since then, I've accepted that truthfully, despite all the discomfort and the cost, opting for the deep laser was a good decision for me. I see now that it's the latest and most dramatic (and expensive) action I've taken in a series that started in my 20s: the hair coloring, then Retinol, then periodic chemical peels, and finally deep laser resurfacing.
Next will be (non-invasive) broadband laser light treatments every six months for maintenance. I'll continue to age anyway, Ms. Natural scolds, but I'll have more enthusiasm to get valuable things done before my time comes.
The doctor is already excellently alleviating my guilt about the money, money most people on this planet couldn't even consider. He travels to Cambodia and Honduras periodically to "surgically repair or create ears for children and adults with congenital and traumatic ear deformities," the website explains. At least my vanity has financially supported such efforts.
