Yesterday, I went to see a facialist for the first time. My skin has been a little dry, and my chin was breaking out. I tend to sit at my computer a la "The Thinker," and as any good dermatologist will tell you, don't freakin' touch your face. I know. I know. But I did, so I made an appointment. She came highly recommended.

Let's just say what Salman Rushdie went through with the fatwa, ain't nothin'. Bitch goin' down.

We fair skinned girls have problems. We burn. We blush. We are atypically sensitive to harsh cleansers. But did Botticelli ever paint a girl with a tan? No, sir. We are peaches and cream. We are porcelain. When the stars align and the cheeks are well moisturized, we positively luminesce. In other words, do not fuck with the complexion. We will hurt you.

She told me, "After a facial, your skin will be a little red."

This didn't really alarm me. See fair skinned girl problems above. Nearly anything can bring color to our cheeks. Sometimes, it's even charming. But whatever it is, it's short-lived. Lightness returns. No biggie.

In retrospect, I see the signs.

I have one word for you: extraction.

She went at my generally clear, generally smooth skin with the burning hatred of a wronged woman sporting a clubfoot and a lisp, digging her fingernails into my face for half an hour. The Spanish Inquisition could've used someone like her.

When it was over, I was pronounced blackhead free. Well, that's swell, I thought. Although considering I rarely look at my face with a magnifying glass, they weren't really bothering me in the first place. But, hey, glad they're gone. Right?

Wrong.

There were no mirrors in the room, which I assure you had something to do with the generous tip I left. There were no mirrors in the hall or the entrance area. There was, however, a mirror in the elevator. And when I looked in it, I wasn't sure if I was going to faint or cry. I settled on pure, unadulterated anger.

I've looked like this before. I was five. I had the chicken pox. I look, in a word, contagious.

I will not be keeping her suggested "follow up." She brings those fingernails anywhere near my rosy cheeks and one of us will walk away with broken thumbs. It won't be me.

In the meantime, I'm getting a lot of work done. You know, now that I can't leave my house for fear of scaring children.

Bitch goin' down.