Hey, That's My Face You're Talking About

I went for a facial today. My first since moving to LA. It was long overdue. I'd been asking friends for recommendations and every place they mentioned was on the west side. So I finally hauled my butt to West Hollywood for an hour and a half of non-relaxation.

I was prepared for stinging masks and painful extractions, but I wasn't expecting my facialist to say that I had ... acne. Say what? Now, I don't know what the clinical, official definition of acne is, but I think it means really seriously bad skin. Hormones are raging and I just got braces, bad skin. You can imagine the outrage I felt while she was studying my pores under that blindingly bright magnifying glass.

Then I thought that English must be her second or third language and she really didn't mean it. She really meant blemished. I could live with that, so I forgave her. Then she said she thought I was 25. So then I almost started to like her. This really isn't so bad. I'll probably be back.