There’s no delicate way to put it: Yesterday I got a facial that ripped my f*ing face off. Not exaggerating. It looks like a wild cat got my cheekbones, or that I’m a cutter straight from A&E, or some pyromaniac decided to target thirty-something women who hate smokers and overcook chicken. Either way, I’m never leaving the house again. That’s a lie. I have a busy shoulda-been-awesome week ahead, and it’s all one big bummer now. Don’t mean to sound vain, but 1) I am vain and 2) My face is really fug. The spa feels terribly bad and I’ll never say where, because I believe accidents do happen and who am I to get some beauty-killer girl fired. It’s not permanent but will take a few weeks to heal. Also, I can’t leave my house without a hat for the rest of eternity…or, until Labor Day…per the famous, uptown dermo who the spa rushed me off to, who wore a Dolce & Gabbana corset and looked like Catherine Zeta Jones on her happy pills. Please, share.
With love, regret, a raked face and my new boyfriend, Neosporin - Alyssa
