Yesterday I had a facial. I haven’t had a facial in forever and a day. Hot steam, patchouli oil, massage, soft blankets and pan flutes. Yes, please. I understand why fabulous people have these on a regular basis. It’s very stressful being fabulous, and facials are very relaxing.
And my skin. Oh, my skin. Dewy, smooth and radiant. Yes, please. Much better than blotchy, flaky, red and just generally pissed off. The nice esthetician gave me some samples of what she’d used in a little bag all tied together with a bow. There’s never been anything bad to come out of a bag tied with a bow. After showering this morning, I rubbed my little hands together and gleefully plunged into my bag of goodies.
The scent of roses filled my bathroom. Roses and lavender and yoga and organicness and the Painted Desert. I heard the distant sound of harps and wind chimes and all the answers to all the questions you’ve ever had. Namaste, y’all.
I had to have some of this stuff. Y’all know. I went online determined to buy some of this Wild Rosehip Pan Flute Balm of the Gods. I expected to spend a lot. I was prepared to spend a lot. It costs over $50 for a little 50-gram jar.
Yoga is stupid. The Painted Desert is hot. Wind chimes can be annyoing. Organicness is expensive. And so is the Wild Rosehip Pan Flute Balm of the People Who Spend More Than Me on Skincare.
It costs a dollar a gram. Don’t rich people buy something else by the gram? Does this stuff have that stuff in it? Well? Does it? It’s either that or ground up unicorn horns. Holy moly.
I’m not ready to spend that much. I am ready to find a reasonably priced alternative on the Internet. Isn’t everybody ready for that? The Internet told me to grab my splatter-covered bottle of olive oil from the pantry. Then it told me to grab the last bottle of castor oil from the laxative aisle shelf at the Walgreens. (There is a last bottle. This is Florida.). I should mix both of these oils together in an old pickle jar and dump in the patchouli essential oil I bought from the weird gypsy woman at the mall who wears Nikes. Lastly, I should smear the whole mess all over my face.
I think I’m gonna try it.