Facing up to it

Last week I had my face hoovered.

OK, so face-hoovering isn't the technical term. The beauty elves call it a microdermabrasion facial, but I'm not fooled. (I always suspected Dyson were up to something when they moved their factory to Malaysia.) 

Anyway, TBF gave me a voucher to try it for my birthday. She came along too and, having survived one before, gamely offered to go in first.

I sat outside waiting for the screams, taking note of all available exits. 'Why didn't I wear trainers?'

But for half an hour all I heard was a low buzzing suctiony sound and an occasional giggle so I figured she would probably pull through.

TBF finally emerged - relaxed and radiant!

So it was my turn. First a nice cooling gel, and then.... 

Wooooosh, woosh, wooooosh!

I could feel the wee crystals blasting away the dead skin cells, sooking them up, and returning my face to the baby-bottomed softness of its youth.  As it was all going so well, I figured I might as well ask...

"Any chance you could adios my double chin while you're at it?' 

Unable to see her reaction with my eye mask on, I assume the nervous giggle was Beauty-Elf-ese for:  "It's a facial, not a miracle, you daft old bat".

But you know what, it was pretty darn effective. I'd even go so far as to say it was worth it. In fact the scariest thing about the whole experience turned out to be reading Heat magazine while I was waiting. 
So perhaps I will yet be persuaded to embrace my inner girly girl. For I may be lardy, and there is no escaping the fact that I am 42, but goddamn it if I haven't got the best hoovered face this side of the River Forth. 

Bite me Britney!