Face It

I went for a facial a few days ago. 

The esthetician at the salon asked what kind I wanted. Anti-aging? Hydrating? Detoxifying? Lifting? In other words, what package could she offer in a valiant effort to connect my skin to what it used to be?

I chose anti-aging. 

It’s awesome to go back in time. 

As I lay on the table though, quietly resting and waiting for her to come into the room to start, I felt my eyes fill with tears.

What? I was surprised. 

What am I feeling? Am I sad? Am I feeling old?

But then I figured it out.

I hadn’t had a facial since I fell on my face six months ago.

I still have the scars.

I’ll never forget plummeting headfirst on a sidewalk in Queens, giant laptop bag on my back—not being able to stop myself—and the subsequent feeling of my face skidding down the concrete. 

It has been six months since I have let anyone look at me under a magnifying lamp.

It was so exposing.

The scars on my nose and cheek have healed just fine, but the largest one is still there on my forehead, an odd, purple-greyish color. I cover it with bangs, which fortunately already swoop over to the right.

My esthetician, Liv, was young—about 20—and sweet. She had a yoga girl crunchy vibe and used lavender and a light touch. 

Liv didn’t ask about my scar.

I thought she might. I kept waiting for her to ask.

She never did.

Instead, she went about her work, exfoliating, cleansing, and masking my tired, wintery skin. As her fingers lightly massaged my temples, the tears came back again.

Imagine if my 20-year-old self could love me like that. What might she know about who I am and who I still could be?

What would my younger, more hopeful self say to me if she could?

I often suggest to clients that you think of your most powerful, sage, wise, older self. Consider what that person would tell you 20 or 30 years from now. What advice would they have to offer you today?

But this made me think, what would my idealistic and naive 20-year-old self want me to know?

I remember her, that girl, fresh out of college, open to a world of possibilities. Cell phones were not a thing yet. There was that hole in the ozone, but no one was talking much about climate change yet. I lived with my parents for six months, waitressing, while I looked for a job. There was that recession. But we were resilient. I was young, and hopeful. I had my whole career and life ahead, and didn’t know what it was going to be.

It feels more complicated today.

Still, I don’t think I’d go back there. I like who and where I am, even a bit scarred and saggy as I am. I wouldn’t want to return to that uncertainty, that giant open canvas, that person with the pain and loss still ahead of her. 

It's easier to have some of that behind you.

As I told friends when both of my parents had passed away, “The only good thing about losing your parents is you don’t have to worry about them anymore. You are on the other side of it.”

My 20-year-old self would probably say to me, “You know who you are. What you love to do. Stop mucking around, and go do it.”

I appreciate the good word.

Thanks, me.

I suppose mine might also tell me that Victor Kiam said, “Even if you fall on your face, you’re still moving forward.”

There’s always that.

What would your 20-year-old self say to you?

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