I have accepted that honestly, despite all the hassle and cost, opting for deep laser resurfacing was a good decision for me
As a former quasi-hippie, my pesky inner Mrs. Natural urges no aesthetic enhancement. It has suffered a crushing defeat over the years. I always wanted to look as attractive as possible. Is this vanity? Probably.
I started covering gray in my 20s. In my 40s, I discovered Retinol cream. In my 50s, I had light chemical peels.
At 37, I moved to Baltimore, where I had friends and met my future husband, who was then a freelance drummer. We graduated to more than friends without exchanging age data. Maybe because we could tell there was a difference, but we liked each other—a lot—and thought it could only be five years. When we found out it was 11, Brian said, “Why do you care?” Seven months later, we got married.
I started covering gray in my 20s. In my 40s, I discovered Retinol cream. In my 50s, I had light chemical peels. Ten years later, there was no doubt: I was starting to look older than Brian. He continued to insist that such vanity was foolish. We had what was important: a solid relationship.
Now or never
True, but that never stopped my aesthetic pursuits. In later middle age – which I euphemistically consider myself still to be – I accepted that the camera and mirror were not superfluous. If I was going to take action, it was now or never.
The plastic surgeon entered the exam 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 was I hoping to achieve?
“Ten years away from that face.”
Recommending deep laser resurfacing, he showed me before and after photos. Faces looked silkier and firmer but hadn’t been dramatically altered, reflecting his aim to “restore the lost features of youth in a balanced, natural way,” 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 show off to? It’ll be the same, except for some doctors watching.” My husband was a professor. I had taught as an adjunct. We were all about education. “Absolutely,” I said.
“Would you be willing to be one of the patients I show off to?”
One patient was observed
The demo would take place in the office and I wouldn’t be knocked out like I was hoping for. There was one major advantage: it would cost $2,000 less. When the day came, I took Oxycodone and Xanax 45 minutes before the appointment, as directed. About 15 doctors and nurses were to attend. The surgeon led me into the room.
The table was covered. “See how comfortable?” he said. He brushed my back for reassurance and gave me a button for the nitrous oxide to check. “Breathe deeply through the nose,” he said. This worked beautifully.
He was switching from one type of laser to another, carving my face while teaching. I learned that nerve pathways traveled one way or another, forming a tissue under the skin.
It was exciting. The airy, slightly sweet smell of nitrous overcame the stinging blows that might otherwise have reached my nose from the laser cutting my skin. The doctor thoroughly examined my entire face, even the eyelids and around the lips. I vaguely remember him explaining that it was possible to fill them up, reversing their tendency to thin with age.
Observers asked questions and added comments. “You’re doing great,” said one, and finally, maybe 45 minutes later, “We’re almost done.” The surgeon worked with the input like an orchestra conductor, listening to the music while continuing his program.
When I dared, I watched through the glasses as he leaned into his boat, hands steady, eyes fixed on the eye. As the medicated recipient of this medical care, I could admire the choreography. It faded like a dance. I left looking like a mummy, my head wrapped in gauze.
The next day, we went back so the doctor could reapply the ointment, covering my damaged face. He held up a mirror so I could tell I looked like an accident victim. I hadn’t envisioned a bloody streak. Remain calm.
What had I done? Did I choose to put myself through such an ordeal just for the sake of beauty?
Time for reflection
My shocked reaction must have shown anyway. “Remember,” said the doctor, “this is only for the first few days. Soak gauze strips in cold, diluted apple cider vinegar several times a day. Hold them to your face. That really speeds up the healing.” For the next week, these instructions became my way of life.
While tending to the wounds on my face, I had plenty of time for reflection. Looking in the mirror for signs of healing, I saw a damaged landing spot for all the senses. Information from the world entered my system through this airstrip, which sent signals to the inner realm.
My inner Lady Natural was horrified that I had never understood how important the face was to basic function. And I had taken responsibility for this beautiful operating system. What had I done? Did I choose to put myself through such an ordeal just for the sake of beauty? Because Brian was younger, my vanity, both? Because I didn’t want to be treated like an old lady before I felt like one? Anxiety was tormenting me.
However, after a while, I could confidently say that the results were undeniable. Eleven days after the procedure, I started walking again. Walking along Back Creek off the Severn River at dawn, I inhaled as much air as my lungs could hold, let it out gradually as the sky brightened over the Chesapeake Bay.
I’m more confident, ridiculous or not.
The ducks were chattering, the masts of the sailboats were flapping in the stillness of the first day. That night, 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 were all a wonder.
Brian admits I look younger but seems to appreciate who I am more. Some friends have remarked, “You look great!” I thank them, smiling to myself and offering no details. The mirror still tells me I look bigger than I’d like, but it’s a significant improvement that I can maintain.
I’m more confident, ridiculous or not. I noticed this a few months ago as Brian and I introduced ourselves to other food pantry volunteers in our new area. My instinct was 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 come to accept that honestly, despite the hassle and cost, opting for 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 began in my 20s: hair dye, then retinol, then periodic chemical peels, and finally deep laser resurfacing.
This will be followed by (non-invasive) broadband laser light treatments every six months for maintenance. I’ll still get old anyway, scolds Mrs. Natural, but I’ll have more enthusiasm to do worthwhile things before my time comes.
The doctor is already excellently assuaging my guilt about money, money that most people on this planet couldn’t even think about. 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 endeavors.
