In my adolescence and early adulthood, I spent hours outdoors without slathering on skin protectants.  I might have thought that’s what the baby oil was for, as I headed for the backyard to do a little “sunbathing.” 

 

     The thinning of ozone layer was not a hot topic in the 1970s and 80s though, to be fair, sunscreens could still be found next to the lotions designed to give you the perfect tan. Being young, I didn’t overly worry about my appearance. Nor was I one for wearing makeup. I was a wash-and-go kind of girl. It had not occurred to me until I started working at a mall department store to dress up my face. It did, however, occur to my friends at the makeup counter. They couldn’t wait to pull out their pallets of rouge, eyeshadow and lipstick with me being used as a blank canvas. Of course, I was excited to see what I would look like under the care of true professionals — all having a few months worth of on-the-job training and all under the age of 23. I was in good hands.

 

     They started with a tan colored foundation and applied it thickly over skin that had never been covered before. My eyelids were coated in a dark navy blue that reached up to my brows, and ample amounts of mascara and eyeliner were applied to the point I could feel my orbs getting heavy. The rouge was dark and angular, and did not follow my actual cheek bones. It created them. The lipstick was a pinkish-purple and bright enough to outdo the other colors on my face. But when they were done — “voila!,” they said as they stepped back.  I thought I looked amazing. They did too, and patted themselves on the back for introducing me to my newfound style. In front of the mirror, I thought I looked like a professional, and I did. I looked like a professional heading for work at a Vegas hotel.

 

     My newly created beauty was short lived, however. The next day I had to call in sick. My face was so swollen, I could not open my eyes. My cheeks were rosy and not from the rouge — that was wiped off on my pillow the night before. I had fallen asleep without jackhammering the makeup off. A rash heated up my entire face and I had an itch that seemed to come from deep under my skin. I used ice cubes to lessen the pain but it took a full day before I returned to normal. I decided then to avoid makeup at all cost.

 

     As decades passed, I started buying facial products again, this time to hide flaws rather than to enhance what Mother Nature once bestowed.  But Mother Nature had turned into a real B, etching so many lines on my face you would think I was turning into a petroglyph from the Stone Ages. While the skin on my arms was thin enough to send me running in the house for Bandaids if a leaf brushed against me, the thicker skin on my face was melting like sludge. I noticed it first over my eyes, then under my jaw, across the cheeks. Don’t get me started on the neck. If it wasn’t so appalling, it would be amusing. Nature — a real comedian.

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     The amount of money I have spent on products would be embarrassing to admit if I actually kept record. Adding insult to injury, none of it worked either. I loaded up on makeup that sounded like it came from a paint store — primers, foundations, concealers, and I was allergic to all of it. I bought night creams, day creams, skin toners, skin brighteners, fillers, peels, masks, retinols. I tried whipped makeup, waxy makeup, mattes, loose powders, pressed powders every one professing to stay above the wrinkles to give you that natural look. I mean, I should have been smarter to fall for the hype. Meanwhile, I have enough products in my bathroom cabinet to start my own cosmetic store.

 

     I am sure I could have saved hundreds of bucks if I took the route of Botox, but that  was not an option for me. I still had a hint of that wash-and-go girl inside me, and I wasn’t sure how that would play with my quest for healthier skin. Plus, with my track record, I would probably be one of the 10  percent who would have some weird reaction. I took it off the table before even putting it on there.

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     I came to believe I should live with what was looking back at me in the mirror grateful for my health, yada yada yada, but that is not how I roll. Barefaced again and ready to throw in the towel, I was at the dermatologist for something non-cosmetic when I heard about Microneedling. This is a procedure that kick-starts the collagen production — which for me apparently shut down entirely — by causing minuscule injuries on the skin with tiny needles. Sounds like a type of medieval torture, but it makes sense.

 

     Collagen is that bounce and elasticity our skin loses over time. After menopause, women lose about 30 percent of collagen and by our 60s, we have lost more than half the amount of collagen production than when we were in our prime. Other factors, like exposure to UV rays, high sugar intake and smoking, accelerate collagen loss. By creating “injuries” on the face through the use of tiny, sterile needles, the healing process — collagen — is activated.

 

     The more I learned, the more I was sold on Microneedling until I heard about a mild laser treatment that removes the top, undamaged layer of the skin to reveal a smoother, brighter face underneath without the downtime. This procedure, which would require several treatments to erase facial lines, is a gentler sister to the traditional CO2 laser treatment that gets of wrinkles, scars, and sun damage all in one treatment. But with that “miracle” came a hitch. The recovery time with CO2 laser is considerably longer because it’s more intense. In fact some dermatologists only offer it during the winter months to keep patients indoors while they heal. I signed up for it a years ago but chickened out when they called me a few days before Christmas. No thank you, Santa. I’m good.

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     Neither of these options to drink from the fountain of youth are cheap, especially when Microneedling and laser require multiple treatments. After much discussion and worry about which would be better (I was told both would be worth considering — thanks, by the way),  I elected to do the Microneedling because there was really no down time involved. Say what you want, even the gentle laser is more intense than what I had in mind. They said it would be like having a really bad sunburn that might cause some swelling and discomfort but after a few days you’re good to go. When it was suggested I get a prescription for prednisone just in it was bad, the doubts won over. I know my past and how I react to things. Those few days would turn into weeks for me. I just couldn’t do it.

 

     So, I finally signed up for the Microneedling. It was recommended to have a facial first to get rid of impurities and prime the face for the procedure. I acquiesced but I had a sneaky suspicion I would regret it, and I did. I spent the next three days with swollen and peeling skin. I ended up waiting another month before moving forward. I was scared, I’m not going to lie.

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     The day of the procedure, which was done by an esthetician at the dermatologist, I arrived at 1 p.m. A waxy goo was applied on my face to numb it. That took about 30 minutes. Then, the needles came out. They were in a little hand-held device and I thought it would just be a few jabs in the skin. But this was more like a power tool, as the micro needles swirled along the skin but, honestly, I couldn’t really feel it. 

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     Everything was targeted, even the neck. I could feel a little burn here and there, but as squeamish as I am, I was unbothered. Let’s Go! It took about an hour for everything to be done. I looked red and blotchy but I did not have the sensation that I usually get when a reaction was going to follow. I felt fine.

 

     In fact, the esthetician gave me a few lotions to deal with the redness, and in a day I had minor patches of irritation, but nothing bad. Unfortunately, there is no glow, no plumpness, no change in my skin, but Microneedling is a process and I knew that was going in. I have two more rounds over the next two months at which time there should be a subtle change to my complexion. I have no false hope here, and it could be that once I complete this procedure, I will look the same. If that’s the case, I may try the laser, who knows?

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     What I do know is that while everything else goes to hell-in-a-hand-basket over time, I am going to do what I can to fix the thing that has caused me more angst over the years. Then, and only then, will I have the last laugh at my number one bully. Take that, Mother Nature!