The sun shone brightly on that 6th day of January as she reached for a towel. Her body
soaking wet, she only dried her head and her hands. The remainder of her body
she kept wet, glistening. She was convinced the human body, especially her
human body, looked better while wet. There was something limiting about the
droplets of water covering her shoulders, torso, and legs. Especially limiting
was the fact that the water she used to wash herself that day, every day, was
ice cold. Most wouldnt be able to stand the deep freeze she continually
put herself through, but it served a purpose. The cold reacts to the body in
the most remarkable way. Everything shrinks. Constricts. Tightens. The skin on
her stomach perked in and her pores stiffened. The muscles in her shoulders
looked strong and pert after having ice water run down them. Her thighs, inner
and outer, upper and lower, were taut. The goose bumps tightened her skin. She
rubbed her thighs, inner and outer, upper and lower. It was all worth it.
Before the effects wore off entirely, she covered herself so the only memory of
her naked frame that day would be of ice cold perfection. The one area of her
body that ice water didnt seem to completely cure was her face, though.
Her cheeks didnt tighten, her forehead didnt soften, her chin
didnt retract like she hoped. And most especially, the skin on her face
didnt brighten. There were still patches of blemishes, of dry skin, of
entire pockets of failure.
She surveyed her face closely in her mirror and
saw those aforementioned patches of blemishes, patches of dry skin, and entire
pockets of failure. She saw them as imperfections, as areas needing
improvement, land requiring a till, a plow, a careful renovation. She targeted
one of these areas needing a remodel a dime-sized piece of flaky skin.
Well, it was smaller than a dime. Maybe closer to the size of a tick or the
head of a medium-sized nail. She carefully picked at one of the corners of this
small blemish with her rather long, well-kept thumbnail. The corner slowly
perked up as she slid her nail deeper underneath the blemish. Flick, flick,
flick. Her thumbnail continued to dig, dig, dig, up under this place until more
than half of the piece rolled over on itself like a small omelet being folded
in half inside a well-seasoned cast iron skillet. After slightly more digging,
a touch more excavation, a little more leverage...pop. The piece was dislodged.
It was stuck to the inside of her well-manicured nail like painters putty
gets stuck to the side of one of those flat tools they use to spread it evenly,
smoothly. Satisfaction flooded her face. The blemish was gone, the crusty
remainder of her facial inequity dismissed.
She almost didnt look in the mirror as she
knew she had successfully excised that sin, for this wasnt the first time
shed done so. But as she walked out of the bathroom, her silk robe
falling off of one shoulder, she saw her face. She saw the wound. She had dug
too deeply, disturbed what horrible terror rested below the surface. A spot of
blood and a red, red crescent lay in the wake of the blemish she, apparently,
unsuccessfully removed. Well that simply wouldnt do. That new red, red
crescent and spot of blood would scar and stain and stay. She felt her thighs
warming and their firmness wearing away. Her stomach, too. No longer cold, no
longer crisp, no longer taut. This made her sweat. Made her upper lip swell and
ever so slightly expel droplets of perspiration. This simply wouldnt do.
This, too, had to be removed. Torn off. Cut out before it could spread. Cut out
like a tumor. Before it could spread.
She cleaned off the crisp dead piece of skin
from her pristine thumbnail and began her new assault. The initial incision
wasnt extraordinarily deep, though it was certainly deep enough to sink
below that red, red crescent, the red, red target of this dig. As she flicked
her nail deeper still inside to get sufficient leverage underneath this new
imperfection, she felt a sharp sting from the area around her extended thumb. A
sharp sting which momentarily halted her dig as a cold tear formed inside her
left eye and slowly dropped down her cheek. This only momentarily halted the
dig, however. She plunged her nail deeper, under the blemish and thrust her now
moist, warm finger upwards, the skin around that red, red crescent ripping
jaggedly in the process. Tears were now more than slightly forming in both her
eyes, but only as a reaction. She knew the sting would wear off. And if it
didnt, she knew the sting was only a small price she needed to pay to rid
herself of her facial imperfections. There was only a small piece of meat
holding this mostly detached chunk of skin to her cheek, she quickly dispatched
it with a strong and sudden and instant pull. She threw her hand in reverse and
the last string of meat ripped off, though it took a strip of previously
perfect skin with it. Well, that just wouldnt do.
She couldnt have an isthmus of epidermis
missing from her perfect face. So, again, she stuck her now blood-stained
thumbnail deep into her cheek to cut out this new transgression. As she moved
her thumb up and down, left and right, like an oscillating saw, she realized
she was mistaken about the sting wearing off. In fact, not only did the sting
not wear off, but it gained intensity with each downward stroke, each upward
removal. Small price to pay, she thought. Keep cutting. Surgeons didnt
leave the entire tumor in the body if they could help it. They would remove it
all if they could. It was poison, disease, mistake. It had to all come out. She
could do this for the greater good.
As she finished her last cut on this new ribeye,
it didnt move. Amazingly, the entire perimeter was connected by a
thumbnail incision, yet it didnt fall off like its predecessor. With
teeth gritted, toes curled, and eyes wide open and bloodshot, she began the
arduous process of peeling off this skin. At first, it didnt hurt. At
first, all she could feel was the wet skin detaching from the sticky underbelly
of her face. A rush of pain and heat overwhelmed her and she did the only thing
she could. She didnt retreat. She didnt stop this necessary peel.
She pulled and grimaced and felt each fiber of muscle and skin separate and
burn and God it felt wonderful as she screamed and groaned and kicked and
clawed and spat.
Her eyes were now bleeding and with every ounce
of energy she screamed to tear off this tough, tough meat. It felt like jerky
in her hand. It was that deep layer of meat and blood and fat that far too
closely resembled a flab or pig or cow before its placed on the grill.
For most, having just peeled off a three inch by two inch parcel of skin would
have immediately induced panic, screams, fear. But she saw past it. She only
saw the remaining mistakes now appearing on the other side of her face. What
previously looked fine, began to appear old, dated, insecure. She again began
to cut, cut, cut. By this time, her thumbnail, which served as her primary
scalpel, had chipped. While this did provide a sharp edge for penetrating her
soft skin, she now had to bring more fingers into the mix. Stabbing with her
chipped nail, she then inserted two fingers from each hand into the hole and
ripped, ripped, ripped apart. Now she was able to carve out skin much more
efficiently, effectively, and with more pain than before. Her hair was now a
mess, sweat and blood now staining her face, and her bathrobe at her ankles
from the constant movement during her surgery. Naked, strong, and unfinished,
she continued to cut, tear, pull, pry, and claw at her face. Skin peeling off
by the handful, meat filling her nails, muscles and fibers falling into her
hands.
Her forehead was a tougher task than the soft
skin of her soft cheeks. There was less fat and skin to dig into with her
hands, her claws, her talons. Peeling those imperfections off her forehead was
closer to removing a piece of Scotch tape that had been carefully affixed to a
hardwood table. Finger at a corner. Tear. Pull. Scrape. By the time she got to
her eyebrows, she paused. Theyd always been perfect. Not by mistake,
however. Shed plucked and pulled and loved her eyebrows with such
devotion over the years. They were the most wonderful eyebrows shed ever
encountered, and she was careful to keep them intact amidst her cleansing. When
she was finished with her upper face, everything was gone. Everything but her
eyebrows. They remained as a border against sticky, wet, hot, under-skin to the
north, and bloody chunks of missing pieces and inevitable infection to the
south.
And with that, she was finished. If you looked
closely, you could tell she was smiling, pleased with all her hard work. You
had to look closely, though, because without lips, its hard to tell if
someone is smiling. But if you looked closely, you could tell. You could tell
she was happy with herself. Happy with herself, bereft of all imperfection. The
sun shone brightly on that day, the 6th of
January.