My Odyssey Into Extreme Dermatology

Newscom Forget botox, retinol cremes and aging naturally. At age 47, I had called in the big guns to fix the changing texture of my face—electro-surgery. I’ve never looked so good.

To my utter disbelief, I, now 47, have since early January become embroiled in an age-related epidermal drama, which, though quite common to the north-of-forty population, is an affliction that not only lies below the beauty industry's radar, but was also previously unknown to me. What makes my ignorance remarkable is that 1) I consider myself a dermatological hobbyist whose favorite recreational reading material is "The International Cosmetic Ingredient Dictionary;" and 2) for the last fifteen years, I, on behalf of my face, have spearheaded a ruthless campaign against the ravages of time, fending off wrinkles, sun damage and sagging flesh.

My face looked as if a Hitchcockian crow had landed on my shoulder, pecking away at my flesh, drawing multiple droplets of blood.

Undeterred by the temporary bloody, bruising and stinging consequences, I have submitted to a surgical eyelift, quarterly Botox and wrinkle filler injections, bi-monthly chemical peels and/or laser treatments to tighten and even out my skin tone. In addition, twice-a-day, I apply no less than nine different creams, alternating and layering them to maximize their rejuvenating potential, never mind the aftermath of unevenly searing off my flesh, with swatches of desiccated skin flaking and peeling, briefly rendering me with the visage of a crypt keeper. In due course, my face emerges much refreshed and—if only to my eyes, which, let’s face it, are they only ones that count—abloom with the luster of youth.

That is, until my recent concession to ever-worsening presbyopia, the clinical term for declining eyesight due to age, which made it impossible for me to clearly see near objects, and worse, unable to properly apply makeup, failing to keep my eye and lip color within the lines. Consequently, I made the practical decision to invest in an illuminated, magnifying mirror for my bathroom.

But holy horrors! Why didn't the warranty come with a warning? The exaggerated reflection suddenly revealed that my pores were hardly as infinitesimal as my naked eye had led me to believe. I was aghast at the prominent peppering of blackheads on the end of my nose. But, they were nothing compared to the unsightly and unfamiliar-looking whitish-to-pale-yellowish bumps—some as sizeable as sesame seeds!—that were smattered across my forehead, cheeks and chin. Were these deformities a scourge of dreaded whiteheads? Yet, how could that be, given my diligence at exfoliation?

I had to call in the big guns, which meant putting in a call to Robin Hillary. A fifty-ish registered nurse and skin care expert who bears a vague resemblance to Calista Flockhart, Hillary is known as a miracle healer to a cadre of extremely discerning, high maintenance, appearance-fixated females who credit her laying on of hands with transforming the most blighted complexion to the comeliest one, an hour-long session of beautification costing $350. The only hitch: a three-month wait for an appointment. Nonetheless, being desperate, I gave it a shot and dialed her number anyway.

“Come over right this minute!” she ordered. “I’m on my lunch break. I’ll have to squeeze you in. But only to assess the problem. I can’t work on you today. I’m booked back-to-back.”