Yesterday I went for a facial peel. I had a half price voucher, and a big face, so I figured it was a double bargain.
Personal grooming-wise, I am about as low maintenance as you can get without being a cadaver. And yet I still find all that stuff fascinating, and like to read BritishBeautyBlogger to see what the latest beauty releases are. Not that I intend to buy any of it, but you never know when you’ll be in a pub quiz with a round on the latest colours to paint your toes.
I nearly didn’t turn up for my face peel. In the week between making the appointment and showing up for it, the company sent me reminders in the shape of a letter in the post; an email; a text; and a phone call. Also they’d given me a little card with the details written down. Blimey guys, insecure much? If you were a boyfriend you’d be dumped for neediness.
The glycolic peel treatment consists of some kind of fruit acidy stuff which gets applied to your face, left for five minutes, then removed with bicarbonate of soda. Apparently glycolic acid can also be used for rust removal. And bicarb can be used to clean the sink. And you’re rubbing that stuff in my face? Is that wise?
So this was me yesterday morning before I had the face peel:
And this was me about half an hour after the treatment:
Apart from a bit of pinkness and shine, there’s not a whole lickety split of difference. I can feel a difference though. My face is much smoother, and I’m thinking of renting it out as a ski slope for ladybirds.
As a big fan of the John Woo film Face/Off, I was disappointed that no lasers were involved, nor did my normal face get swapped with that of an international villain. There was no smell of burning flesh, so I did not get to jump up shouting “Jesus Christ my face is on fire” like I was planning to. Still, not bad at all. Looking good for 65.