Skin | yohana
My face is revolting!” I cried out from the examining table the instant David Colbert, MD, a dermatologist based in New York City, stepped inside his treatment room one Monday afternoon back in March.
“I wouldn’t say revolting,” he replied, laughing lightly.
“In revolt!” I declared. “It’s the Arab Spring of my skin.” My complexion—once so clear, calm, and under control—was now in a rage. Thrusting out my chin to give Colbert a better glimpse of the angry redness of my skin, I then directed his attention to my cheeks and forehead, where parched patches of flesh were shriveling up and flaking off, leaving my face raw, sore, and scabby. As if that weren’t battering enough, my nose was besieged by blackheads and whiteheads, while along my jawline an outbreak of fiery pimples was freshly erupting.
I felt frustrated, confused, and a bit embarrassed. Shouldn’t I be well beyond the years of sebaceous-glands-gone-wild—and at the same time, hardly so ancient that my face could be withering and desiccated from early-onset self-mummification?
What made my deterioration even more deplorable: Ever since my midthirties, when my youthful glory succumbed to the ravages of premature aging (frown lines, crow’s-feet, droopy eyelids, and the like) as a consequence of once-latent damage that I incurred in my sun-worshipping youth, I have maintained a compulsive commitment to skin care. From braving the plastic surgeon’s scalpel to lining up for the latest cosmetic dermatology treatment, as well as performing at-home beauty treatments to rival any professional aesthetician’s, and with no amount of pain, bruising, downtime, or dollars ever deterring me, I have been shamelessly willing, even insatiably driven, to do whatever it takes for the upkeep of my face.
“See these brown spots?” I ranted at Colbert, jabbing my finger at my temple. “I never go outside during midday sun. I always slather on titanium-strength sunblock. In the summer, I carry a parasol, no matter how insane it looks. And I use bleaching creams twice a week at minimum. So, why my sudden blight of hyperpigmentation?” I implored, looking the doctor in the eye.
“Um, I really don’t see anything,” he said.
“Look closer!” I demanded.
Pulling up a medical stool and sitting down, he leaned over my face and calmly asked: “What products are you using?”
“What don’t I use?!” I exclaimed.
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