The Facial

Yesterday, I took all the money I saved on that Orla Kiely bag (and then some) and threw it at my face. Literally. I had a facial during which Dona, the amazing facial-giving owner of Rescue Spa in Philadelphia, steamed, scrubbed, and sanded the skin on my face. Then she stimulated it with electric paddles, which made my mouth taste like a melting metal spoon. But my skin? Gaw-juss. Seriously. I first went to Dona about a month before we moved from Philadelphia to New York City, and my skin had never looked so good. I've continued to go to her, -- if once or twice a year facials can be called "continuing" -- and I've bought the products. Oh have I bought the products. But my skin?! Seriously. Today, after the facial, I look like I'm 37. And I never had skin with pores this small before. Even my mom says my skin has never looked better. When she tells me this, we fall into a discussion of what we'd do to our faces when and what options are available. My mom, like her mother, has gorgeous skin naturally. She's one of those women who could shear vaseline on her face and it'd look beautiful. Me, not so much. Which is to say, the products, the facials, they're worth every penny I lavish on them. But it also means I have to wear a hat. Always. Because you can't cough up the change for the products only to singe your skin in the sun, can you?
So I mostly have much better skin than ever before, but sometimes I look silly. A reasonable trade-off, don't you think?