When Beauty Equal Pain.

They say beauty is only skin deep and that beauty is pain.  This is especially true if you go for Erbium laser skin resurfacing.  You see for the last couple of years I have declared war on premature ageing.  I refuse to “age gracefully” and I have successfully managed to keep a seven year distance between my perceived age and my real age. My arsenal in this war includes my oils of delay, regular Botox treatments, the odd minor cosmetic surgery and most recently, laser skin resurfacing.  Consequently, I have no frown lines on my face, no wrinkles and no sun spots and I intend on keeping it that way.

For a couple of years now I have had Botox treatments and absolutely love how it works.  Emotional expressiveness on your face is highly over rated and who could not benefit from a brow lift and looking mildly surprised.  Botox is like having had a little vacation in your lunch break that lasts four to six months.  It is relatively painless, takes only a couple of days to start working and if your doctor knows what she is doing you will still be able to move some muscles in your face and look natural.  Besides the anti-ageing benefits of Botox and it also hides one of my tells.  You see whenever I am in a meeting and someone is boring me or talking bullshit I tend to frown.  It’s involuntary and now with Botox I no long can do it either involuntarily or voluntarily.

Recently I noticed sun spots developing on my face.  They were like freckles, but freckles on steroids.  They were scattered all over my forehead, cheeks and multiplying like sex starved bunnies.  So in my last consultation for my Botox maintenance the doctor recommended Erbium laser skin resurfacing.  It’s a procedure that takes roughly 30 minutes and only requires three days down time.  She promised that this will remove the sun spots, smooth out my complexion and fill in any frown lines and/or wrinkles that I may have.  It doesn’t take a lot of convincing to fix a problem on my face or body if it falls within my budget or price range, so I booked the appointment.

Three days prior to my appointment I started with my pre-procedure medications, purchased the skin numbing cream that I had to apply an hour before the procedure and pain medication for just in case.  Whenever any person in the medical profession uses the term or phrase “It may cause mild discomfort” it means it is going to fucking hurt.  Besides if your whole face is going to be penetrated with a laser for a half an hour you'd be silly if you do not expect some pain or "discomfort" as the professionals phrase it.

On the day of the appointment I was rather excited.  But as the time drew closer my excitement turned into a nervous tension.  “What if it doesn’t work and I am horribly disfigured?” I remember thinking when I washed my face at the office.  Just as I was about to leave the office and applied the numbing cream I thought “What if this is the last time I’ll ever be pretty because of some really bad reaction from the treatment or from some nasty infection?”  When I arrived at the consulting rooms I checked in at reception and made a dash to their restroom to apply another thick coat of numbing cream “Better safe than sorry” I tried to reassure myself.

I waited ten minutes and then I was ushered into the laser room by my doctor and her assistant.  I took off my coat, got onto the examination bed and shot up a little prayer “Please don’t let this hurt too much!” Then the treatment started.  Three short burst per area, a slight stinging sensation and the smell of burnt hair filled the room.  The doctor explained that it wasn’t my skin that was burning but rather the hair follicles in my beard that were being scorched.  Half way through I was asked if I wanted a ten minute break.  But being brave and believing that I had a high pain threshold I asked her to finish.  This was a mistake.

When the second part of my face was being treated it hurt like a motherfucker. But just as I thought I could no longer handle the pain it was over.  Like any self-respecting homosexual I asked if I can smoke a cigarette, for a ten minute break and a cappuccino before the second and last laser treatment was done and the repair lotion was applied.  At that stage my face was burning and I looked like a pale Brit who fell asleep on a South African beach and woke up just moments before his sunburn turned into blisters.  I looked and felt like a burn victim.  The burning sensation lasted about an hour and then completely went away.

The next morning I woke up to find my face red and some mild swelling around my eyes, mouth and cheeks.  I managed to wash my face which was rather sensitive and noticed that already pieces of skin were starting to peel off.  To my amazement my sun spots was being wiped away every time I used my cleansing lotion and it seemed like a miracle.  The treatment was working!  The worst part of the laser was not the actual procedure, the burning sensation directly after or the swelling.  The worst part was the not being able to shave for 7 days.  I hate facial hair on myself and I was starting to look like I had an emotional breakdown and was turning into a recluse whose greatest enemy was sunshine and people.

Needless to say, I didn’t venture into public for four days.  Unfortunately for me Sunday was father’s day and hubby and I were hosting it at our house.  Still red and peeling I thought "What the hell it is family after all".  Also, it’s not like I was keeping this a secret from anyone.  When the in-laws arrived they noticed something was amiss with my face but it took some time before the reason my face looked the way it did was discussed.  My sister-in-law (who can be a bitch sometimes) in her not so diplomatic way, said “I do have my opinion on your cosmetic procedures, but it is your money.  If you want to do it and can afford it who am I to judge you.”

On Monday, I didn’t go back to work.  Not because of my face but because I hurt my back.  I ventured into public for the first time for an injection and flurbiproven plasters and nobody noticed anything funny with my face.  My skin already started to clear up on Sunday night and returned to a semi normal color.  I still have three more days to go before I am allowed to shave my beard and it seems like an eternity.  As for the results?  Four days after the treatment and I can already see a 75% improvement and I believe the full effect will be visible in the next fourteen to sixty days.  Maybe now I can extend that seven year distance between my perceived age and my real age to ten years.

Till next time.

Grey Hair! What the F...

Denial n denying; statement that thing is not true or existent; disavowal.  This is how the Oxford Dictionary defines the state I have been in since I left my hairdresser’s yesterday.  What was supposed to be a carefree and relaxing day bleaching my hair and making me all pretty and blond for our island holiday turned out to be a “life event” so horrendous, so horrifying I can barely bring myself to write about it without sobbing uncontrollably into my Bloody Mary.  Yesterday I discovered my first grey hair(s)!

Yesterday started out like any other normal day.  I slept until 8am (I am on holiday after all), had a quick breakfast while maintaining my social media presence and catching up on all the GLBT news from around the world.  Then got dressed and made my way to my hairstylist’s salon, completely oblivious to the fact that my world was about to be turned upside down.

Seeing as I was bleaching my hair I arrived at the salon early as it normally takes a good 5 to 6 hours for my hair to turn platinum blond.  My stylist decided to cut my hair first as I still had some blond bits from the previous bleach in my hair.  As he cut my hair I noticed a patch of hair on my fringe that didn’t seem to grow out.  There was no regrowth just a blond patch.  “It must be my natural highlights” I thought, I remembered having them as a child and how nice of it to make an appearance again now.  I was wrong.

Just as my stylist was about to start applying the bleach to my hair, he inspected my blond patch.  As he was inspecting it I thought he too was admiring my natural highlights.  Then he looked at me and I could tell something was amiss.  “Dude, I don't know an easy way to say this.  You are starting to go grey.” he said.  He called his assistants who also had a look and they confirmed the news I was dreading.  So I had a closer look myself.  “MOTHERFUCKER!” I screamed in my outside voice in my head.  They were right! If it wasn't for my botox everyone in the salon would have seen how shocked I really was.

 Mother nature, the cruel bitch that she is, crept up on me like horny dog wanting to hump my leg and snuck in a whole patch of grey hair while I slept.  “I am only 34.  I am too fucking young to be going grey!  This is the last fucking time I will allow my natural hair colour to grow out.  Nothing good ever comes of it anyway!  NOTHING!” I thought.

Traumatized and depressed I sat at the salon for 4 hours while my hair was being bleached.  The grey took off 2 hours of the total bleaching time.  It’s not the sort of consolation that makes me happy, but hey, being old I guess an extra two hours to do something else is helpful.  Life is short and over far too soon.

It was clear that I have passed my prime and the only way I now will be able to maintain my dignity and the farce of a youthful appearance will be with chemicals, toxins, medical procedures and prayer.  This must be why people become reborn Christians:  Once the grey hair start appearing and you enter into this phase of life, you realize how close you are to old age and seriously need to start thinking about the hereafter.  “Jesus Christ, Mary and Joseph!  I cannot believe that I am getting old!” I thought on my drive back home.  I was not happy, but the worst was yet to come.

 Later that evening I needed to attend to my man hair in my genital area.  A couple of days earlier I had a full body wax and all my man hair that was not covered with a G-string was ripped from their follicles.  Even though my beautician is completely willing and capable to give me a “crack & sack” wax, I always prefer to tend to that area myself.  As I stood in the shower inspecting myself, deciding whether I was going to go completely hairless or not, the unthinkable happened.  More grey hair!

“SON OF A BITCH!  My crotch and balls too?!!  MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!” I screamed as lightning struck (it really did and I don’t just say this for dramatic effect).  As I sat on the shower floor crying like an emotionally disturbed child while staring at my old dick and balls, all I could think about was “Do you get like a hair dye for pubic hair or will normal dye do the same thing?”  At the end I decided to shave off my pubic hair, all of my pubic hair.

I always knew this day would come, but I thought I had more time.  More time to enjoy colouring my hair out of luxury instead of necessity.  I am getting old and now for the first time there is proof.  I choose not to think about it because it upsets me too much but, in time, I guess I will accept this cruel turn of events and maybe one day I will be able to laugh about it.

Next week hubby and I are flying to Madagascar for a well-deserved island holiday; 12 lazy days of sun, sea, snorkelling, scuba diving and reading a few good books.  12 days of forgetting that we are getting old and going grey!

Till next time.

Happy holidays my dear reader.

May you have a wonderful festive season and a FABULOUS new year!

I Am Ugly Betty

This whole Ugly Betty adult braces thing is seriously cramping my style. It’s been a couple months since these god awful contraptions have been affixed to my wayward teeth and not a day goes by without me cursing them to hell. Earlier today I managed to spill a soft drink all over my cute outfit and had to spend the rest of the day walking around in my stain soaked and now not so delightful fashion statement. Then over lunch time a piece of food got stuck in my braces that I, as of yet, still have not been able to dislodge. Rather glum and reflecting back on my day I can’t help but be reminded why I hate my adult braces.

Having had my braces now for seven months, one would think that I would be quite use to them by now. Well, one would think wrong! I do not think you ever quite get use to wires and brackets in your mouth that’s systematically moving your teeth and grating away the insides of your mouth. You also never quite get use to food that’s forever lodged in between your teeth concealed by metal in impossible angels that not even the best contortionist with the most modern of orthodontic tools would be able to dislodge. You also never quite get use to the idea of speaking with a lisp that you never had before.  A lisp that you now have because foreign objects in your mouth are preventing you from enunciating your words properly. You also never quite get use to having your lips caught in your wires during important meetings and then desperately trying to discreetly extricate them without causing yourself significant embarrassment. No, seven months on and I am NOT used to my braces.  But the day-to-day gripe of having adult braces being as bad as it is, it is only surpassed by one thing - those damn orthodontist visits.

For some inexplicable reason I always seem to suffer some injury, ailment or embarrassment just prior to my appointments. During the last seven months I had surgery, an eye infection, had a nose injury and accidentally poisoned myself, all just days prior to my orthodontist appointments. Needless to say pitching up for my appointments with some disfiguring injury and/or ailment must have had my orthodontist and her assistants seriously wondering what I do for a living and whether my job is dangerous. But being the consummate professionals they are, they have never once asked me and I have never volunteered any explanations. Injuries and ailments aside the visits to the orthodontist are unpleasant in itself and for those of you who dislikes dentists I recommend you skip the following paragraph.

Have you ever heard of inter-dental scrapping? No? Well then let me explain. In the past several months I had the misfortune of experiencing that nasty procedure three times. Three times! It is a procedure where the orthodontist assistant takes a very small file like gadget and pushes it in between your teeth and then pulls it out again, repeating this action several times. Apparently this is done in order to help make space in between your teeth and help them to move faster. Essentially they are filing down your teeth and it is barbaric! This first time it was done to me I was caught completely off guard and was too traumatized to resist. The second time I tried to negotiate with the assistant not to do it, but she did it anyway. And the last time I almost resorted to physical violence, much like a cat not wanting a bath, but the bitch was strong and she pinned me down with her elbow, leaving me squirming in the chair like I was having an epileptic fit.

Apart from being tortured every six weeks by having inter-dental-scrapings and having my braces adjusted (which hurts like a mother fucker), nature also decided to through a spanner into the works. From the onset I decided to get porcelain braces as they are less noticeable but unfortunately much more expensive than regular braces. They are manufactured in Japan. Yes Japan, you know that place which had that bad ass earthquake. That Japan! And the earthquake completely destroyed the factory that manufactures my braces and they currently cannot be found anywhere else in world. The factory is now being rebuild but this time in the United States and in the mean time if I break anyone of my little porcelain devil brackets I am screwed. Do you know what kind of stress that causes? Every time I bite something and I feel something crack, I shit myself a little and pray it was not a porcelain bracket. Imagine, I whole top row of teeth with porcelain brackets and then on your top front tooth a regular one. Gawd! I am not biting into anything hard until I get conformation there are at least four or five spare brackets in a volt somewhere for me in case of an emergency. It can even be taken off a dead man I don’t care.

I have by my orthodontist’s calculations another ten months left of suffering adult braces. Damn you orthodontic relapse! Damn you! Seven months on I won’t lie; I have seen some major improvement towards getting that perfect smile back again. The braces are doing their thing and I guess it will all be worth the pain, embarrassment, drama and unpleasantness in the end. However, the end cannot come soon enough! So until then I will be Ugly Betty, lisping and drooling my way through life until I am free from these damn braces.

Till next time.

Medieval Torture from Hell

It has been a month since I had the medieval slow torture wires from hell, also known as adult braces, fastened to my very sensitive and now wallowing in self pity teeth. Having had braces when I was a child, I assumed I knew what I was in for, but the human mind can be one deceptive devious bitch. Like natural child birth for women their minds supposedly let them forget the pain and trauma of pushing a watermelon through something the size of a lemon, therefore allowing them to go through the same torture again; getting adult braces seems to be rather similar. You selectively remember some discomfort but it is not until your mouth is filled with wires and jagged edged metal pieces that the true reality sinks in. This is what I have been dealing with the last four weeks and still have to endure for the following 13 months.

Having adult braces is not a fashion statement! Even though I opted to get the porcelain braces that are less conspicuous there’s no way of really hiding the fact that you have a metal mouth. Firstly, the first couple of weeks I was practically classified as disabled. I had to learn to speak again and sounded like I was drunk or retarded every time I opened my mouth. I couldn’t really eat anything solid because I was in pain and only had 4 available teeth with which to chew. I also lost the ability to smile, because every time I did my braces would scratch my inner lips and/or my lips would get caught on my braces. This not only caused a fair amount of pain, but also left me looking like some kind of psychotic serial killer showing people the teeth I was going to use to cannibalize them with combined with a forced frozen uncomfortable unflattering smile.

But having adult braces isn’t all bad. The inability to eat and chew your food properly is the best diet I have ever been on. I have lost at least 5 kilograms to date and baby food is starting to look and sound really scrumptious! There have been times that I was absolutely famished, had strange noises bellowing from my stomach and forced myself to sit down and at least try to finish a whole plate of food. I have only managed to do that once. Eating takes me ten times longer than usual, chewing has become a skill I had to master with some effort and some days half way through my meal I just give up – eating should not require such a tremendous amount of concentration and dental agility. And then there’s the downside.

Combine braces with food and inevitably you end up with embarrassment. Just last week I mastered the skill of actually eating a hot dog. Yes people if you have braces certain foods require “techniques” to eat and Oh Boy it ain’t pretty. I managed to eat a whole hot dog which took me twenty one minutes and thirty five seconds (I timed it!). Washed it down with a Coke, and then rinsed my mouth out with sparkling mineral water. I then left to attend a meeting. The meeting itself was quite taxing and after leaving it, for some unbeknown reason, I decided to check my teeth in my car’s rear view mirror. Lo and behold, half of the hot dog was firmly lodged in my braces and on my front teeth none the less. I spent 90 minutes talking to people trying to be all professional and such with food stuck in my wires. God only knows what they must have been thinking! But none of the bitches said a damn thing, although I think they had quite a good chuckle after I left!

As you can now clearly see food is a major issue in my life right now. I am constantly hungry craving thinks I am not allowed to eat. If I can’t suck it, swallow it whole or if a morsel needs more than 5 minutes of careful chewing I don’t touch it. But there is an upside. One meal can last you a full day. Even though I do my best with a wide range of specially designed gadgets to dislodge my breakfast, lunch and dinners from my food magnets there will always be a couple of pieces strategically hidden that dislodges during the course of the day. This in turn conveniently allows you to have a taste of your previous meals at the most inconvenient of times. It’s like cows regurgitating their food only I’m not a damn cow. And then there’s the dental hygiene issue.

My dental hygiene routine has become super complicated. What took me five minutes twice a day now takes me 30 minutes and that’s why I have been late for work so frequently. I refuse to get up 25 minutes earlier because of it. Being a smoker (yes, I have not quite yet) I may be prone to gum infections due to my railway tracks in my mouth. So now I not only brush my teeth from all 1000 angles I also have to brush my gums, rinse my mouth with a special mouth wash and try to floss. We wired and tortured folk have a special type of floss. It’s 20cm long, consists out of three parts and using it requires dexterous fingers, extra mirrors and a shit loud of patience. Flossing will add an additional hour to your routine and that’s only when you become quite good at it. This past weekend, when I had some time to burn, I tried it. After an hour I only managed to floss four teeth, got the floss stuck in three of my braces and ended up crying on the bathroom floor like an emotionally disturbed child covered in my own spit and a little bit of blood. I have not flossed since!

Braces have changed my life, my diet and some days it negatively affects my mood. I dream about steaks, eating out in restaurants, get nightmares about restaurants, obsessively check my teeth before meeting meetings and day dream about taking pliers and removing them. I have only 13 more months of this to go, and 13 months can be a very long time. I keep on reminding myself that it will be all worth it in the end, but when faced with my arch nemesis which is the flossing kit I am not so sure I am going to make it!

Till next time.

Sherry Vine's Parody You're a Home

Beaten up by a Lesbian?

It has almost been two weeks since my surgery and I’m slowly awakening from my antibiotic, ant-inflammatory- and pain medication haze. I’m bruised, battered and slightly worse for wear but at least it’s all over and I can again string two coherent sentences together. The surgery went well, I’m healing and in six to eight weeks, after I have seen every hue of purple my body can produce and the swelling finally subsides, I shall be happy with the result. Plastic surgery isn’t for the faint of heart and looking back and catching unflattering glimpses of myself in the mirror it begs the question – Will I do it again?

The morning of my surgery I was a mixture of excited to finally have the source of my esthetic discontent cut out of my body and incredibly nervous to undergo twilight anesthesia. The prospect of being semi conscious while somebody takes a scalpel to your eyes is less than thrilling. Hubby and I arrived at the doctor’s office fashionably 5 minutes early and like a lamb to the slaughter I checked in. After a short but agonizing wait the surgeon fetched me from the waiting area, introduced me to the nurse that was going to assist him, made some small talk, laid me on the bed then took my arm gently placed the drip’s needle into a vain. It wasn’t long after this that things became fuzzy and my recollection of what transpired is patchy to say the least.

I do recall that at one stage I was in discomfort and after responding to the surgeon’s question to that effect things went blank again. I also recall that I was asked to open my eyes, being aware that I was being stitched up and after the surgery asking to see what had been cut out (I’m macabrely weird like that). The next memory was of us driving home and then waking up in bed. Queerly, I don’t recall ever actually being in any kind of pain. Waking up in bed realizing that the surgery was over I couldn’t resist taking a look at my face. Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror I recall thinking to myself that I didn’t look that bad, I was only slightly swollen and bruised, little did I know it was about to get a great deal worse.

It wasn’t until that evening that the swelling began. My eyes swelled up like carnival balloon, went pink and then a dark purple. I looked like I was in a fight with a butch dyke and her biker friends and I had lost! For dramatic effect I was also bleeding a little from my stitches. I looked ghoulish and hubby was understandably horrified! It was a long night; I slept in the vampire position and became very familiar with the term “discomfort”. Strangely enough it didn’t physically hurt but it sure was painful to watch, so I decided to keep a photo diary of my recovery (again I’m macabrely weird like that). The next few days were spent mostly in bed and an unhealthy relationship with ice packs emerged. I was in loved my two blue frosty pads of comfort – they were my precious!

The first week of being semi immobilized vertically and socially unacceptably looking I did the only thing I could – I watched allot of television and slept. I caught up with Oprah and Ellen and watched all ten hours of the 83rd Academy Awards (E’s red carpet, the unedited award ceremony and E’s Fashion Police’s Oscar special). My sleeping pattern was noticeably screwed up and I felt jet lagged. Week two wasn’t much better but I was at least out of bed more. The main source of annoyance after the surgery strangely enough wasn’t the bruising or the swelling but those damn stitches! They itched and it drove me insane! Luckily, a week after surgery they were taken out, much to my relief, and this was also the only painful part of my plastic surgery procedure. My follow up visit was largely uneventful, I was told I’m healing great will be looking fabulous in two months time and to still take it easy for another week. But I was really getting bored at home, tired of television so I had to find something else to do.

So I discovered Facebook’s Farmville, the most annoying and frustrating thing ever invented by mankind. It’s time consuming, competitive and after one week I was ready to give it up and let my little cyber farm wither and die. But at least it kept my occupied for a while. As my bruising and swelling started subsiding I ventured out of my self-imposed isolation and instead of asking hubby to get stuff from the shop I braved going out in public. My Prada sunglasses came in handy nicely hiding my now blue, green and yellow eyes. However, it is quite strange how quickly one can forget that you still look pretty bad if you don’t look at yourself in the mirror every five minutes. This little slip of the mind grossed out and shocked a few people the other day.

In the shop minding my own business I was looking for eye drops in the self medication section and was unable to find it. Being far- and near sighted at the same time and the well illuminated shelves dimmed by Prada and deep in thought I took off my sunglasses to take a better look. Not finding it, I proceeded to finish my shopping. I noticed people looking at me funny but I just thought they were all having a bad day and I ignored them. It wasn’t until I made it to the front of the checkout counter that I realized the cause of the stares. “Sir, I know it is none of my business but who did this to you?” a very concerned lady asked me. Taken aback by her frankness and realizing that my sunglasses were on my head and not on my face the only response I could think off at that moment was “Dr Paul Pienaar”. Not elaborating the lady probably left thinking my plastic surgeon beat me up and that’s fine too.

Tomorrow it will be two weeks since my surgery and I will be returning to that place that pays my bills. Most of my colleagues know what I have done and those who don’t will probably think I was either gay bashed, beaten up by a lesbian, in an abusive relationship, in a car accident or walked into a door. In retrospect I am happy that I have done this and the experience was not all that unpleasant. I’m still healing, still a bit bruised but all things considered it was worth it. I can’t wait to see the full result and patience is not one of my virtues, but alas I have no choice. Will I do this again? Ask me again in ten years and the answer will most probably be yes!

Till next time.

Lady Gaga - Born This Way

What Don’t You Like About Yourself?

In a week’s time I will be going under the knife and I am slightly nervous. You see I am getting minor elective surgery meaning that it’s not in the true medical sense “necessary” but for me it is and not because it is simply considered “de rigueur”. It’s something that has been bothering me now for years, has been getting progressively worse over time and is, to some degree, adversely affecting my self-esteem. On the eve, so to speak, of not only getting braces I’m also getting plastic surgery and now having publicly announced it, I couldn’t help but wonder why some people still view cosmetic surgery as a taboo and why people lie about it? Is it something to be ashamed off?

My loyal readers (all 10 of you) know that I started with Botox when I turned 30. It was a conscious decision I made and one I am happy with. Sure my ability to frown or look sufficiently surprised have been traded for a smooth brow with visibly absent frown lines and wrinkles; a low price to pay to keep the signs of ageing at bay as certain facial expressions are highly overrated anyway. Some may view this as vanity but I call it proactive maintenance. But for many years (the last 8 to be exact) there have been something that troubled me, something I managed to efficiently hide with the right products, sunglasses and Photoshop until recently. A month ago I decided that I had enough and made the choice to have the dark fatigue trenches under my eyes removed, surgically and permanently!

Again you may call this vanity, but allow me to explain. Twice during the last 3 years I have been asked whether somebody punched me – my dark circles under my eyes have become that bad! Until about a year ago I managed to conceal 80% of it with my special Yves Saint Laurent magic makeup combo. But I have now reached the point where trying to cover up my raccoon eyes takes me longer than shaving, getting dressed and doing my hair combined and with all that effort I now only manage to conceal about 30%.  I know I am not hideous looking but I am becoming increasingly self-conscious about it so I discussed the matter with my doctor during my last Botox treatment and she suggested surgery. Other treatments she could offer would only be temporary and the results would proof lacking to meet my expectations. So it was off to the plastic surgeon’s office.

Sitting at the cosmetic surgeon’s immaculate reception room surrounded by pictures of Grace Kelly, Mae West and Audrey Hepburn, I looked around me at the other prospective patients wondering what they wanted to have nipped, tucked or enlarged. I’m sure they were wondering the same looking at me. Eventually, my turn came and I expected the surgeon’s opening line to be “So what don’t you like about yourself?” a question I could have easily answered both literally and psychoanalytically. But he didn’t ask. Instead, I explained to him I wanted the circles under my eyes erased from my face, he listened attentively and then ushered me into the examination room where he pulled, pressed and stretched my lower eye lids while I was nervously holding a mirror in one hand. At the end of the examination we returned to his office and he proceeded to explain how this miracle surgery would occur.

The circles under my eyes are due to fat glands pressing on the veins under my eyes and this is causing blood to accumulate resulting in its dark appearance. The grotesque effect is further exacerbated by loose skin. The fix, cut out the fat glands and tighten the skin. The catch, the procedure will take 60 to 90 minutes and will be done while I am awake! I will be connected to a drip and administrated a drug called Dormican and then given a local aesthetic. The Dormican will make me sleepy, relaxed and erase all memory of the procedure and when I eventually come too, I will be safely nuzzled in my own bed at home. It sounds freaky I know, but as I was explained this method is becoming more popular for this type of procedure as well as liposuction, nose jobs and a few other surgeries as it’s less traumatic on your body, recovery time is quicker and coincidentally it’s also cheaper. So convinced that if other people have made it through having their eyelids cut open while semi-conscious, didn’t go crazy or sued him (I Googled and Hello Peter’d him after the consultation), I would be fine too. So I scheduled my nip and tuck for next week Wednesday, I have made peace with the fact that it’s going to happen, but I am still shit scared.

Not many people will readily admit getting Botox or are open about getting cosmetic surgery. Writing this blog post I’m also not convinced I’m doing the right thing to so publicly admitting to what I’m planning on having done. But I decided to be open and honest about it. Why start lying to my readers now? The worst that can happen is that people will think I’m vain, superficial, self-obsessed, narcissistic and preoccupied with my appearance and they’d be right, to some degree, all bloggers are some of these things that’s why we blog after all. But in all honesty, I believe that if you don’t like something about yourself, if there is something you can fix that will make you feel better, then why not do something about it? I am going to; I’m not going to lie about it and I will not be ashamed of it. After all I’m doing this for myself with realistic expectations. I’m not expecting a 100% improvement; at this point I’ll be happy with 50%.

Horrific News

This week I heard the three words I hoped never to hear again. They bring back painful memories both literally and figuratively. Memories of embarrassment, inability to eat certain foods, one week in every six weeks of physical pain, wax, chapped lips and having to accessorize my fag bag with toothpicks, a tooth brush and toothpaste. This week I was told “You need braces” again and I almost died! I had braces before and never thought I’d see the day that I had to go back to that, but alas I have no choice.

You see this week I went for my regular teeth cleaning and checkup at the Dentist. Admittedly the Dentist is not my most favorite medical practitioner to see, hence my obsession with my dental health. I have never had a cavity in my whole life and I never plan to experience the horror of being inflicted on a root canel. To avoid the dental drill I brush my teeth twice, sometimes more, a day and floss and do everything I can to keep my gums and teeth healthy. So with this week’s visit I wasn’t expecting any bad news or nasty surprises and that is the thing with optimism and expectations - neither have ever served me well.

Towards the end of what was a rather uncomfortable teeth cleaning session my Dentist, the genius that he is, decided to compare my current X-Rays with that of my previous visits and discovered something ominous. He doubled check the X-Rays and with an alarmed expression checked my mouth and said “I don’t think you are going to like what I am about to tell you” and he was right I didn’t and I proceeded to throw a hissy fit and almost broke down crying. “Braces! Really?! I’m turning 34 this year I can’t be wearing no God Damn BRACES!” are just a few boorish things that flew out of my mouth. After I dropped a few more F-bombs, he managed to calm me down.

“It’s not that bad” he said “There are many adults that get braces these days, it’s almost fashionable”. Yea right, braces at my age is hardly a fashion statement and besides that they will clash with all my outfits! Apparently I am experiencing what they call an “Orthodontic Relapse”, which is just a nice way of saying you are fucked for two years and if you’re single you will stay that way!  There was no good news that day, my teeth are moving again and they will not stop by themselves and, whether I liked it or not, if I ever want to smile again on a photo I would have to get fucking braces.

Quite depressed I arrived home and started to Google braces. These days you get invisible ones that you can remove for eating and for other things that requires an unoccupied mouth, but they are expensive and knowing myself I’d probably not wear them 80% of the time which defies their purpose. You also get porcelain ones that are less noticeable and could be a more viable solution. However, they break easily and due to their fragility could increase your braces hell by double. So the most viable option is the standard metal mouth braces which one can brighten up with colorful rubber bands giving you a pretty scary rainbow smile – come on let us all jump with joy!

I’m still depressed and is looking forward to my first appointment at the Orthodontist on 3 February at 2:30pm with the contempt and enthusiasm it deserves. I’ll be 36 when my braces come off, that’s four years from 40! For the next two years I’ll be getting my braces adjusted next to 13 year old kids, be eating corn on the cob with a knife and fork, not be able to smile after eating lunch or dinner because there will be food that needs to be dislodged and my personal favorite - I’ll be setting off metal detectors at airports. All fabulous things I have to look forward too. The only upside to this is the fact that I will definitely lose weight.

As one of my more favorite medical practitioners was injecting my annual Botox touch-ups, she said something that made sense. Vanity comes with a price, a fair share of pain and a whole lot of sacrifice. Our metamorphosis of what we want to be on the inside and outside is never complete and there are always some things we would want to change. Some things are by choice and others are not and peace should be made with that. I choose not have the ability to frown as it’s highly overrated but I don’t have a choice about the braces. With just over a week before my reunion with the Orthodontic industry I will make a concerted effort to make peace with the impending fact that I will be getting braces. Fucking braces!

Till next time.

Tommy Ryman at the Joke Joint

The Collagen Palace

They say beauty is only skin deep and true beauty comes from the inside. However, some of us need a little help when it comes to the “skin deep” department. I have just gone for my Botox touch-up at another one of those Collagen Palaces that promise the fountain of youth with a few injections, peels, lasers and surgery. After my little procedure I left wondering why we so eagerly pursue beauty and whether I now too may have crossed the line in joined a group of people that would pay large amounts of money to cling to youth for as long as possible.
My first Botox treatment was earlier this year and as I vividly described on my blog it was a pleasant experience and the benefits aesthetically pleasing. When I was due for my touch up I decided to go to another plastic surgeon that was recommended to me by a friend. All excited I called her office and to my great disappointment the first appointment I could get was only in three months time. Being quite surprised the overly friendly and slightly annoyingly happy sounding receptionist told me they could place me on a “cancelation waiting list”. So two weeks passed before I got a call informing they had a cancellation and I could be helped the very next day.

Arriving at the surgeons offices I was amazed at the magnitude of her operation and facilities. It was a one-stop-shop where you could get anything done apart from major surgery. As one would expect from such an establishment the staff was immaculately dressed and all had a little something done from Botox, collagen to fillers. Walking towards the counter at reception I spotted the Prozac Queen who I had spoken to before. It should be illegal for one person to be so happy and I could not quite determine whether it was just her natural personality or chemically induced, either way if I had to spend a whole day with her I would be forced to staple her lips shut.
After completing the normal paper work I was escorted to the waiting area where I joined a couple of middle aged women all engrossed in the little pamphlets of the different procedures the facility offers. The conversations they had resembles that of people discussing a restaurant menu the only difference was they were discussing chemical peels, body sculpting, facelifts, Botox and vaginal rejuvenations. It seems that apart from the normal nips and tucks of ones flabby bits you can now also get a younger vagina. What will be next a testicular lift and/or penis rejuvenation? Not wanting to listen to how their privates have been tightened I decided to go for a smoke and wait for my turn at the outside coffee shop area.
When my turn came the permanently surprised looking and cheerful receptionist collected me and ushered me into the Dr’s consulting room. My face was examined, the procedure discussed and this time fillers was also introduced into my age delaying chemical recipe. I found the Dr very pleasant and genuinely sincere in her approach. After every possible frown was reproduced, my facial muscles examined and frown line inspected she took out an array of syringes and meticulously placed them on a small table next to the bed. As usual the Botox injections were relatively painless, but when it came to the fillers it was a slightly different story. The best way to describe filler injections is like being stung by a small bee with the slight burning sensation lasting only a few seconds - kind of painful but nothing that would cause a ghastly scream. The other queer thing about fillers is that you can actually feel the thin line if you stroke your finger over the treated area and this really grossed out my hubby.

During the procedure the Dr and I had a nice chat. She told me about the wide range of clients she has and to my surprise she told me of two very well known International Airlines (the names of which I will omit out a fear of being sued) sends their cabin crew to her when they are in South Africa to get Botox and fillers done. Apparently these airlines pays for the procedures and all their staff members that deal with the public are encouraged to undergo these treatments on a regular basis. It’s seems having a flawless and youthful appearance are part of their job description – what a great perk to have. We also discussed the reason people have cosmetic procedures done and from her answer I concluded everybody does it for their own personal reasons, some out of vanity and others out of necessity.
So why do I get Botox you may ask? After some pondering I realized to a certain degree vanity does play a role in my motivation, but mostly it is because if I can delay the effects of aging why not. I do take pride in my appearance. Even though of late I again gained some weight and unlike Oprah my blog readership does not increase with every pound I gain, I still take care of myself and do plan on shaking off the extra pounds and could even inject some of the fat into other parts of my body – Yes, people do that for all of those who just gasped in horror! My decision to get Botox also has a lot to do with the fact that my frown lines made me look unfriendly and every time someone bores me, talks nonsense or when I get annoyed I tend to frown betraying my concerted efforts to hide my true feelings from who ever is sitting across from me in a meeting. Another and final reason for me joining the Botox Band Wagon early is to stay away from the surgeon’s knife for as long as possible as preventative measures, in my opinion, are always the best.

After my touch-up and having had my eyes opened to the other side of cosmetic procedures I honestly don’t think I will go over board and make my visit to the youth fountain a monthly excursion. A visit once in a while (when needed) and in moderation is the healthier option for me. After all I don’t want to end up looking like some of the freaks you see on Dr 90210 or the E channel’s Top 100 Worst Plastic Surgeries. When I look into the mirror in ten years time I still want to be able to recognize the person I see looking back at me.

Till next time.

Robin Williams Plastic Surgery

3 Tons of Fun and the Coke Head!

Hairstylist much like fashion designers can be quite bitchy and fiercely competitive creatures. This past Sunday hubby and I were invited to attend the Trend Vision South African Finals of which our hairstylist was a finalist. If you put a bunch of hairstylist together in one room under stressful conditions and throw alcohol into the mix it can only lead to one thing – a party and tons of fun!!!

Our stylist have been preparing for this competition for the last nine months, working tirelessly to perfect his colour and cut and hubby was commissioned to design the outfit that would complete the final look. Months of planning, stress and hard work would culminate into this one day of judging and a final runway show that would determine who would win and have the honor to compete at the International finals in Berlin Germany later this year.
On arrival at the hotel the staff immediately knew that we were part of the Wella Group Booking, I think the blond and the black Mohawks pretty much gave us away. We settled into our quirky room waiting to hook up with our stylist, his wife and their model. Upon their arrival our stylist was slightly boozed up already, and as his wife pointed out that you could tell he was tipsy by his wondering left eye. We had a few glasses as champagne before they disappeared for the final rehearsal. The model was instructed to intimidate all the other models as only she can. Earlier that day two woman were talking about her in hearing distance and said she was beautiful, tactful as she is she turned to them with a polite smile saying “yes, I am” – you cannot buy self-confidence like that!
An hour before the show was scheduled to start hubby and I and the rest of the “poofter possy” decided to queue in front of the door, as there were no reserved seats. The moment that door opened a mini stamped ensued as we were all elbowing people out of the way and recklessly throwing our tickets at the staff as we rushed to claim the best seats in the house. Settling into our front row seats the show started. We were entertained with a trapeze act and a cabaret show by three obese ladies appropriately named “3 Tons of Fun”. When our stylist model emerged from a cloud of smoke my jaw dropped with amazement. They truly saved the best for last. Our stylist nailed it, and the model burned up that runway with oozing self-confidence and dramatic flare.

After being wowed, the talented 3 tons of lard entertained with a few more melodies. After what felt like an eternity the 3 whales left the stage just before it could buckle and the results was announced. When it came to our stylist’s category my hands were sweating and I could hear my heart beat in chest. Our stylist was sitting in a strained attention with his wife tucked into his arm. When the words “and the winner is” was uttered a dramatic paused followed with the whole of the poofter possy softly vocalizing our stylist’s name. Then our stylist’s name graced the announcer’s lips and nine months of hard work finally paid off – triumph!!!
Then the party started and alcohol flowed. Many congratulations and drinks came my stylist way and the odd bitchy remarks by sore losers could not be avoided. As we all got juiced up some other people got high. Two ladies in particular seemed to have enjoyed their little white powders too much and they were obviously in an altered state of reality. One coke head introduced herself to me as the “fairy princess” and the other one had an inappropriate relationship with a white feather. The most amusing part was one of the salon staff members who loves her tequila (as do I) who didn’t want to go home and kept on hiding behind hubby and I and at one stage leopard crawling to the bar thinking her boyfriend (who was responsible and did not drink) would not see her. Well he did, allowed her one more tequila and then very diplomatically took her drunken ass home. Naturally, after they kicked us out of the venue at midnight we took the party to the hotel. Hubby missed a few steps on our way there to the great amusement of the group. The model said that if they won she would streak through the hotel and the stylist would join her wearing her bra. So guess what, she did! I accompanied the two crazy semi-naked people through 3 floors of the hotel. Strangely enough even in his drunken state my stylist noticed the CCTV cameras and was worried security would kick us out. Personally, I think the people in the security control room had loads of fun watching our antics and that the security video should be on YouTube soon. At least I had all my clothes on and nobody was “technically” naked, but indecent we were indeed.

After a couple of hours sleep it was time to check out. Tequila and their friends left quite a mess in my head after their party and I felt like death warmed up. Protected by my sunglasses I proceeded to settle our account. The hotel seemed brighter than usual and the staff and their little gadgets excessively loud and abrasive. After forcing some food into my body and a strong cup of coffee, we were on our way home where I spent the better part of the day nursing my hang-over.

Looking back on the competition and the party we had, I am tremendously proud of our stylist for winning and being a representative of South Africa’s best talent abroad in Berlin. I am sure he and his team will do us proud. The only draw back is that we aren’t going with and hubby’s fashion creations seems to travel more than he does; having been to London, Milan, Paris and now Berlin. Concerning the party, it was great fun but once a year is quite enough as anymore would definitely lead to my liver asking for a bail out.

Till next time.


BLACK BRIDE SEBASTIAN NORWAY

Change!

They say change is just as good as a holiday. Seeing as my tranquil island holiday is still four months away I decided to settle for change in the interim. What did I get up to this time, you may ask. The answer is simple I bleached my hair. I went from being a normal blond to platinum blond. Having altered the way I look I was now left to wait and see if change indeed would break the monotony of my daily toils and indeed inject some new energy into my life as one would expect.

A simple haircut or colour can make a world of difference when one is in desperate need of a kick-in-the-ass when you are feeling stuck in a rut or have just been through an ordeal such as a breakup. Many of my female and male friends have under gone drastic transformation after their breakups and shedding their locks and/or changing their hair colour has been like leaving the pain and memories behind and turning over a new leaf. So after a couple of stressful months at work, just loosing a property that we desperately wanted to purchase (which did feel very similar to a breakup) I was due for a little fashion renovation. It didn’t take much convincing from my crazily artistic stylist to convince me to once again push the boundaries. After more than five hours in the salon having all the colour fried out of my hair follicles I emerged as a white as snow platinum gay god! Or at least that how I felt!

Upon my arrival home, hubby was visibly taken aback with my new look but seemed to like it. His first words were of concern asking me what the people at my work are going to say. Working with a group of people in a fairly conservative milieu and not taking well to change or drastic fashion statements, hubby’s concern was well justified. My colleagues reaction to change could be similar to that of nuns should they learn pink is the new black of their habits. On Monday morning I was admittedly nervous arriving at the office. I snuck past some of my colleagues offices and avoided my boss. Unfortunately avoiding him was not an option!

News of my “drastic” change spread through the building faster than the average bad office gossip. Soon my phone rang and an ominous sounding voice summoned me to the boardroom where my whole department already congregated. Stepping into the room my heart skipped a few beats and I was sure I was going to be reprimanded for transgressing some clause of our overly stringent dress code. I sat down looking nervously across the table at my boss trying to ascertain his mood and trying to interpret the looks I was getting. Was it shock, anger or disbelieve? The meeting progressed and ended without any reference being made about my hair – it truly was the white elephant in the room. Having shocked these people so many times in the past they must have become immune to my weird hairstyles, unique sense of fashion and flaming fagotary; all they are left to do is ask – what next?

The reaction to my new look has been met with varied responses from my friends and family as well. Showing up for Sunday lunch at the in-laws the only thing they did was role their eyes, sighed and then we went about our family visit as usual. One of my least tactful friends asked me whether I was preparing to have a nervous breakdown as my hair would now perfectly match the outfit I would wear in the padded room at the mental hospital – he obviously didn’t care for the new look. However, the majority of the responses were favourable most wanting to know whether this was a one time thing or whether the look will stay around for a while. I am yet to decide that for myself.

People’s reactions to me in public hasn’t really changed that much. I have noticed the odd stare here and there, but I guess it’s only because it’s “different” and “not natural”; two terms I have become accustomed being gay. Who wants to be just like everybody else and have natural coloured hair anyway? I can’t even remember what my natural hair colour is, yes it has been that long! Having made such a drastic change forces one to carry the new look with confidence and pride because whether you like it or not, deal well with the reactions of others or not, you will be stuck with your platinum locks for a good few weeks if not months to come.

They say blonds have more fun, the truth of this I am still waiting to discover. Amongst the sea of blond jokes that are raining down on me via e-mail and looking in the mirror and sometimes having to take a second glance to make sure it is indeed me I must say the change has done me a world of good thus far. I have noticed a slight increase in “blond moments” to the great amusement of others and am having fun with it. All things considered I think I have achieved my goal: I have injected a new energy into my life; the monotony at work has been broken as others have something new to gossip about and the status quo have been challenged yet again. However, change is not just as good as a holiday as I am still tired but at least now I know I’ll make it to my actual holiday.

Till next time.

Raw Comedy Stand up.

Strike a Pose!

With the much anticipated unveiling of what could be the next biggest trend in men’s hair fashion (the “V” cut) I participated in my 2nd only photo shoot in my 32 years on this planet. Not being an oil painting nor being very photogenic the prelude to this big day, I was frantically trying to shed a extra few pounds as they say the camera adds 10 pounds and I was consumed with nervous tension (after all this face wasn't made for television and is more suited for radio or the print media). So I was left with the gnawing question– will I be able to play model for a day or will I crack under the pressure inflicting the same destructive force on the camera lens and photographer?

My 1st photo shoot was for my attempted television debut on the 1st ever Big Brother South Africa. This was many years ago but the memory of that Sunday afternoon is still vivid. The photo shoot was done on a couple of locations and I distinctly remember feeling increasingly foolish striking poses while the unsuspecting public were staring at this hive of activity, probably wondering who the hell I was not knowing that they may soon see me on television 24 hours a day for 3 months. I remember that the camera scared me and made me feel self-conscious about all parts of my body I perceived as being imperfect. I always hated my noose and therefore I found seeing profile pictures of me more frightening than watching the Exorcist on the big screen. The photo shoot went well and I was pleasantly surprised with the end result, but unfortunately the final decision by the producers of Big Brother excluded me from potential fame and knowing me also probable embarrassment. Like my husband says, sometimes you just can take me anywhere with my chronic “foot-mouth-disease”.

With the final countdown to the latest photo shoot I was making my way through peak hour traffic I came to the realization that what ever happens I must at all cost just relax and try having fun. Arriving at the shoot the atmosphere was relaxed. The skilled make up artist managed to artistically cover up my stress pimple that like Mt St Helens’ Volcano was threatening to erupt over night. She also managed to conceal all the nicks I had inflicted on myself with the previous morning’s shaving or rather carving disaster. My stylist who also happened to be the photographer did his magic with my hair and the signature “V” cut was perfected. I was ready for my close up! This would be my 1st shoot in a studio and it’s quite different from a location shoot. Everything appeared more confined and controlled. Unlike Naomi Campbell I was no diva and no personal assistants or housekeepers were harmed as there were none, besides I can’t afford throwing my phone at anyone or finance defending an assault law suit.

As the shoot started I was admittedly nervous in front of the camera. Having grown more mature since my last photo shoot, I have come to accept certain parts of my body that has become a good part frumpier than my Big Brother stint. A few well needed shots of social lubricant (aka strong liquor) relaxed me and the shoot progressed nicely. I am no natural therefore certain instructions on poses I found peculiar. Being said to manipulate your body into a position that feels totally unnatural, tilt your head in ways you have never done before and relax your lips was not something I was used to do. At one point having to keep a certain pose for up to a minute I could feel my leg muscles starting to shake, and I gained a lot more respect for professional models. Even though it felt queer posing in such precarious positions on camera it looked completely natural and hid all the little physical flaws and most importantly the much hated double chin. What more can a gay guy ask for!

Several wardrobe changes, themes and what felt like hundreds of photos later I actually started enjoying myself and my intense fear of the camera seemed like a distant memory. The other consolation was that if something didn’t look right at least there was the ultimate savior in the form of PHOTOSHOP! As my confidence grew adventurousness set in and the boundaries and inhibitions I had of what I was willing to do in front of the camera abated – I was now less concerned of showing a double chin and more focused on having fun even at the expense of looking like an absolute idiot. My husband was there for moral support and in certain photo’s a hand, an arm and a partial shot of his face can be seen. At the end of the day the creativity, confidence and freedom the photographer showed was contagious and it ended up being a very enjoyable experience.

Having survived my 2nd photo shoot I must admit that the experience was an eye opener. From being nervous of embarrassing myself I managed to cross a psychological barrier that prevented me from venturing beyond certain boundaries of being in total control of my outward appearance and entrusting my body to another person’s creative vision. The experience was scary, fun and at the end of the day very liberating. One thing is certain I am no professional model and the run ways of Paris and Milan will not grace my feet any time soon but having spend 4 hours in front of the camera I gained a new found confidence and my phobia of being photographed and having a Naomi Campbell epic breakdown was completely unfounded. This Diva is still utterly tame and harmless and the general public is safe for now.

Till next time.

HEDDA LETTUCE COVERS LADY GAGA'S POKER FACE