Peeling, on Purpose

The only really bad sunburn I recall was when I was in my late teens.  Diana Gross, my Chugiak High School debate partner, and I went over to Hawaii on a Mark Air special - not the Captain Bly Standby, but something cheap enough that two high school students could spring for it on a weekend getaway.

Lesson Learned:  Pale is Good

We stayed at her parent's timeshare condo, and I couldn't really afford to do anything.  Anything.  I think I came to Hawaii with $50 in spending money.

Diane sprang for us to go out on a catamaran booze cruise, only we didn't drink, and I don't recall eating either.  What I DO remember is laying out on the boat, the sun reflecting in the water, reflecting off my skin, making Diana twice as brown as her normally olive colored skin turned dark and sexy.

Pasty white girl over her, I burned.  Lobster Red.  I knew I was burning on the boat, but had no suntan lotion with me.  Nothing to protect me at all as I grew redder, redder, and still redder since the boat wasn't going to turn around for silly naive me.

The salt from the ocean crystallized in the blister pustules in my burn.  When we got back to the condo Diana tried to cool me down with aloe, with ice, with Benzocaine burn spray.  Nothing helped.  I was miserable, and continued to be miserable for about two weeks.

The peeling was of lepros-ratic proportions.  The insides of my clothes would be covered with rolled up bits of skin, and the tan lines from that swimming suit stayed with me for several years - re-appearing every time I even glanced at the sunshine.  If I ever end up with skin cancer, this is the reason why.

When Bella suggested to me that a chemical peel felt like a really bad sunburn, I knew instantly this was not something I was volunteering for.  I don't care how much she coo-ed about how soft and smooth your baby skin was after the week of peeling.  I don't care how she says she would get the most invasive peel that a doctor would do, because the results are SO worth it.  I don't care.  I have NO interest in ever feeling that REALLY BAD SUNBURN feeling again.

Kelly Whitworth and her Perfect Skin

So here is Kelly Whitworth, who has been totally straight with me about the whole skin care thing, suggesting I needed a chemical peel.  Bella jumped from her chair, screamed in delight, and did a happy dance.  I looked at Bella.  I looked at Kelly.  I looked back at Bella.  I had this sinking feeling I was being set up.  Looked around the Exquisite Skin Esthetics area at the Alyeska Center for Facial Plastic Surgery and ENT for the nearest exit.

I thought I recalled Kelly giving me a chemical peel two weeks earlier before my microdermabrasion treatment.  It was uncomfortable, but not so uncomfortable that you would write home about it.  She put a layer of "friendly" acid on my face to take off a layer of the skin mantel so that the skin vacuum could do it's stuff more effectively.  It really wasn't that big a deal.

Well, Kelly told me that I needed the same thing, only two or three layers of "friendly acid", since the effects are layer dependent.  I also remembered some idle chit chat two weeks ago about the pain going up with each layer.  So three layers would mean three times the pain as the first one.  How uncomfortable was that first one?  Not so uncomfortable that I am really remembering clearly.  That is a good sign, right?

I look at Kelly, her perfect skin glowing back at me like the poster child of health.  I look at Bella, who is smiling from ear-to-ear.  Kelly, serene, calm, reassuring.  Bella, her eyes flashing with unbridled enthusiasm.  I close my eyes and listen to Kelly's steady voice telling me that this is only going to take about half-an-hour to 45 minutes, and the effects are really going to be noticeable.

My brain really didn't click in until it was too later.  I was in Kelly's room, wrapped in a warm blanket, with a hot towel over my face, thinking of a joke that was passing around in anticipation of Alaska's next senate race.

Mark Begich and Joe Miller happened to end up in the same barber shop the day before the election.  Both barbers were careful not to say a word, less a firey discussion about politics broke out and their client got so distracted they forgot to tip well.

Miller's barber finished first, and went to grab the aftershave when Miller said, "No, none of that flower water for me.  I don't want my wife thinking I smell like the inside of the Bush Company."

Begich's barber finished a few seconds later, and Mark said, "You can go ahead and use aftershave on me.  My wife has never been to the Bush Company."

I was chuckling to myself when Kelly put on the first layer of acid.  Not a big deal at all.  Then the second layer.  A little uncomfortable, maybe a two on a scale that goes up to ten.  Third layer brought that up to a four.  It really wasn't "hot", especially with the fan blowing on my face, it was just uncomfortable.  Like things are moving around on your face uncomfortable.  Buggie.

Glowing with Gov. Sean Parnell at Jewish Cultural Gala

Kelly said that was uncomfortable enough, put on some neutralizer, and that was the end of the big chemical peel story.  We all met up at the Mixx Grill for the Holiday Wine Expo afterwards.  I was glowing like an angel.  Went to the Jewish Cultural Gala the next night.  I was glowing like an angel.

No sunburn pain, not like I remembered anyway.  Skin was a little tight, bit scary in the mirror in the morning.  But I was solid in my post care, and that went away with the application of the lotions and potions Kelly hooked me up with.

Then the peeling started.  Peeling like you can't imagine.  Lizards, snakes, they had nothing on me.  Was more like a malemute husky's seasonal shed.  You know when every brush of the dog fills the brush up. Yep, that was me, shedding my skin.

Truly disgusting.  Dead skin rolls everywhere.  That went on for four nasty days when I really wanted to hide in a cave.

And then it stopped.   Now my skin is soft, supple, like baby new skin.
Would I do it again, in a heartbeat, like Bella suggested?   Well.  Yes.