Review 2.3. Soooo, today I had booked into one of those fancy clinics for a cosmetic facial laser treatment. Not, I should add, the type practised by our National Treasure, Katie Price; rather the females in my family are cursed with a genetic predisposition to, as the years progress and the hormones start to evaporate with every single breath, develop dark patches of pigmentation on the face similar to that of an over ripened banana. Now, karma has smiled upon some of some of our clan and their mottling has presented itself, subtly, say, on the arms or similar; places where it is somewhat concealed. Myself, I get them slap bang on the kisser.
So, like a responsible adult, I booked myself in for a “patch test” to ensure that I don’t have a reaction to the procedure and duly turned up the customary 15 minutes early #imavirgo and took a seat in the eerily quiet waiting area. My personal details were taken by a lovely young lady, who I shall call Ms Take. Ms Take must have been on her probationary period. It stated very clearly on all the classy promotional material that they did state of the art laser hair removal. Ms Take had a moustache which my 21 year old son would have coveted so was obviously not allowed to get staff discount on treatments yet.
The lady who carried out my treatment was lovely. She had me lie down and gave me some tiny little goggles to wear, the like I have not seen since I was a regular at Sunnies tanning salon in 1995. She was clearly a professional as she had some very heavy duty pro goggles; she looked like she was about to do some oxyacetylene welding rather than bringing back my “youthful glow” -but, “safety first” and all that.
2 minutes later and “patch” test complete, off I skipped, although, with a distinct feeling of sunburn on my cheek. Luckily I went straight home as, when I glanced in the mirror I noticed that my therapist was a bit of a joker/a Harry Potter fan /lunatic as my patch test on my cheek is, in fact, not a patch, it is in fact in the shape of a bolt of lightening …or a disorderly number 2 (the digit, not the bodily function 💩).
Hey ho, It could have been worse, my aunt gets the pigment marks on her top lip. Out Damn Spot!