Would you like a Facelift with that?

Felt sure when I stared in the mirror this morning I would look years younger, but not to be. The little crater I’ve had on the top of my noggin this past month which started out as a slight bump before it was unceremoniously removed, turned out to be a Basel cell carcinoma with unfriendly cells still lurking in its depths, so further excavation needed. The crater was about to become a canyon.

Had prepared myself well, getting my hair cut an hour beforehand as I knew I wasn’t going to front up to a hairdresser any time soon looking like I’d had brain surgery, plus a new cap to hide it all so I didn’t scare any innocent Christmas shoppers with my Frankenstein’s monster head.

In the process, discovered a new meaning for the word undermine. I’ve always thought about it just in behavioral terms, such as discounting or belittling someone’s efforts, or placing someone in a bad light so their integrity is brought into question and their reputation tarnished.

One definition though actually does mean to excavate, which is obvious when you think about it, so in my case the skin specialist had not only undermined it a month ago, but had essentially under-undermined it as he now had to dig deeper. Seems my education has been sadly neglected by not seeing The Incredibles, as the doc proceeded to fill me in on the exploits of the Underminer character.

My haircut changed shape somewhat as my scone was prepped, turning me into a medieval looking monk with a bald patch on top so the deed could be done. Now there’s not exactly any fat on your head, have plenty distributed all over my body, but unfortunately none up there to soften the sting of six local anaesthetic jabs before we could even start. After that it was plain sailing, a few strange noises, not quite sure what he was digging around with, but when the stitching up process arrived, that’s when things got interesting.

Also due to the lack of fat on top, getting the skin back together after creating a darn big hole brought with it a whole new sensation. The needle was going in and out, hate to think what life was like before anaesthetic, and as he worked his way along the open-cut mine with his expert needlecraft, everything suddenly went tight. This picture instantly came to mind of an eighteenth century woman (or whatever century it was) being laced up in one of those torturous corsets till she can't breathe.

Was I getting a bonus instant eyebrow lift, or maybe a mini facelift? Whatever was happening, it certainly felt like it could only be a good thing, just so long as I didn’t end up looking like I’d been caught in the headlights with a permanent stare of shocked surprise, or had been botoxed and couldn’t move my eyebrows.

But the mirror doesn’t lie, face looks the same, just as old as it did yesterday, no smoothing out of wrinkles. I have a pic of the outcome, as I knew it was the only way I would be able to see the doc’s handiwork, but thought it best not to share it. He did a good job mind you, but it’s not my best angle. My little experience under the surgeon’s knife for health reasons certainly convinced me I’d never go through the full enchilada voluntarily just to improve my appearance.

Will have to simply age disgracefully.

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