Last night, a BevHills plastic surgeon invited me and The SnowMan in for some free treatments, in hopes of my wonderful writing talents scribing him some free publicity. It was a fabulous press night, filled with gay men, champagne, itty bitty appetizers, and Botox-deadened smiles; yes, it was a night about LaLa-Land in all of its superficial glory!
Shying away from injectable toxins too the face, despite the pleading of my ever-wrying brow, The SnowMan and I opted for some newfangled lasering technique, otherwise known as Skin Tightening. Sounds painful, huh? Basically, they just put some cold gel on your face, rub a I-don't-feel-a-thing, Is-this-thing-even-working laser about your jowls and then spent 20 minutes telling you how fabulous you now look.
An hour of scrutinizing myself in my mirror-mirror-on-the-wall post-tightening left me feeling as if I looked... exactly the same. But hey, a girl can really get used to being told how hot she looks by a room of professionals for 20 minutes, right?
Oh, in case your wondering, that ardent adoration would not be, as a MasterCard commercial might have you believe, "priceless". It would come at $1,000 a pop!
And that alone, at least in my pocketbook's book, is enough to give you a whole new set of wrinkles!
WeLCuM 2...
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