POST WRITTEN: Dec. 8 (Monday), 2 pm
While I was on my way to work I noticed that my forehead are clearly showing signs of stress so, I dropped by the clinic of, I think my only dermatologist, just right outside our village. I crossed my fingers and hoped she wasn’t there because she would bring up the fact that I haven’t finished my intended facial sessions with her that already expired in about a year or so. I don’t have a defense. I am guilty. The truth is, I only liked buying her specially concocted medicines when something comes up. It always depends on the dire need. But I always choose to skip the pricking and scooping part.
I don't really like facials, to be honest. I have experienced it though. I do it once in a blue moon (like once a year), if I'm feeling sadistic, but otherwise I never go. I don't like people touching my face because they end up making my face swollen and me with a runny nose. So that quickly implies that my skin wasn’t in tip top shape. I’ve accepted that it’s already a part of my genetic make-up, a hormone issue that no matter how many times I’ve washed or disinfected my face, blemishes would still make their presence known to the public. And frankly at that time I really couldn’t care less. Almost everyone’s going through it, why bother too much? The teenage plague of acceptance against ones facial disposition was never a logic that I followed. But by the time I was about to be employed in my second Job, I had a major allergic reaction that needed some dermatological attention. So my mom urged me to go to her friend who maintains a dermatology clinic just outside our village.
The dermatologist, just like all other dermatologists I’ve seen, is a woman with fair complexion and with an obvious aristocratic upbringing. I hate to say that she might be vain, but I’ve accepted that it’s a part of a dermatologist’s life and business, which is to be vain. We inevitably consulted with her as she studied my face like a map, which always makes me feel uncomfortable. On that same day, pricks of anesthesia and lasers landed on my face and I just wished it was over. I privately said that it was only a one-day affair. I would make up an excuse not to go back as she gave me a bag full of skin medications all packaged in small, sealed white plastic jars. I think in that bag, I had steroid cream, anti-allergy ointment, acne gel, placenta cream, moisturizing cream and some sunblock gel. It cost me roughly a fortune, but I figured that I would just listen to her once, at least finish this intended set and never go back.
But the thing is, this dermatologist of mine sells kick-ass acne gel and soap that works like magic. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been a soap and water kind of girl. I didn’t go though the Eskinol-moisturizer phase. There were times that I did try grocery facial products as seen on TV only just to experiment. They all promised fair and amazing results, but most often they don’t do anything or they even aggravate the “issue.” By college, I’ve given up and just stuck to Ivory soap and water.
But after a couple of weeks and months of excruciating application, truth be told and as the commercials would say it, my skin got better. My scars were easily cleaned and my blemishes have gone to a minimal. I’ve analyzed that maybe a part of the gratification goes to the fact that I’ve gone older and my hormones are a lot less racier or it’s just that a particular product with intense application instructions just worked for me. I hate to sound like a complete commercial buffoon, but ever since then I’ve stopped listening to commercials and I’ve stopped using other soaps unless it comes from her clinic.
I’m not exactly sure what happened, but I’m sure that if I patronize, I patronize whole heartedly. If I can, I would buy at least a box of her acne and sunblock gel and get it over with. It would save me from unwanted trips and the risk of seeing my doctor. I might not bear seeing her look at me like I’m such a hard headed patient, but I do patronize her products no matter what the cost. The last thing I need is for a complete grown up, professional woman, scolding me with a zit in my forehead popping due to stress overload.