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Six Weeks
Beside the mirror, I set down a small brown bottle.
A firming serum, made with retinol.
I bought it with winter in mind, reaching a little beyond myself.
The instructions say, in small print: start with a little.
In early December, a friend from university is getting married.
Six weeks.
A day I will be in a great many photographs.
Back in our student days, my friend and I did our assignments in the same room almost every night.
For a while, we even shared a single bottle of toner between us.
I wanted to stand beside my friend with the face I had back then.
The first night, two drops.
The next night, three.
By the fourth day, on my cheeks, around my eyes, on my neck.
Every night, I put it on.
One week in, I wake to find the sides of my nose faintly red.
When I run a finger over them, fine white flakes lift away, like powder.
When I put on foundation, that one spot roughens, like frayed skin around a fingernail.
Washing my face, it stings.
Before a meeting, in the restroom, I press more powder over it.
The more I add, the whiter that one spot stands out.
When there is a day we want to arrive ready for, we end up hurrying even the care of our skin.
On my lunch break, at a café near the office, I look it up.
There was a study that compared retinol with bakuchiol, an ingredient derived from a plant, over twelve weeks.
The changes in wrinkles and dark spots, it said, were about the same for both.
More of the people using retinol reported peeling or stinging.
Twelve weeks.
Looking at the bottom of my cup, I count on my fingers.
There are only six weeks until the wedding.
That night, I opened the bottle anyway.
The Nine
On Friday, I asked my junior colleague along.
The one who, last month, had asked me in a small voice, “Are you… angry about something?”
“I’ve never played,” they said, and came along anyway.
I show them how to hold the cue, and we play nine-ball.
Hit the balls in order, lowest number first; whoever sinks the nine wins.
That is all I tell them, and they nod.
Every time my turn comes, I go for it.
The far balls, too, and the ones I can only cut thin.
I miss.
The cue ball stops right in front of my junior colleague, in the easiest spot on the table.
They sink it.
“Sorry,” they say, for some reason.
From my chair, I watch them sink one ball, then another.
Two balls short of the nine, they finally miss.
At the next table, a back I recognize.
The regular who had spoken to me once before.
Playing the same nine-ball, with someone I don’t know.
The regular’s turn.
They walk once around the table and stand there for a while, saying nothing.
Then, instead of going for it, they send the cue ball rolling, softly, and nothing more.
The cue ball slips in behind another ball, and stops.
The opponent lets out a small breath.
“Did you do that on purpose?”
My junior colleague blurts it out.
The regular smiles a little, chalking the cue.
“When you don’t think it’ll go in, well. Playing safe is part of the game too.”
The opponent’s shot never reached the ball it was aimed at.
The regular came back to the table and, from there, quietly ran out to the nine.
Then it’s my turn.
The ball I need is far away, and a thin cut.
Any other time, I would go for it.
I set the cue down and walk halfway around the table.
Instead of going for it, I try sending the cue ball, softly, toward the far end.
The cue ball hides better than I expected.
My junior colleague walks twice around the table, looking stuck, and then, with a little “here goes,” strikes.
The ball touches nothing at all.
“That’s not fair,” my junior colleague laughs.
I was laughing a little, too.
Every Other Night
Home again, I stand in front of the mirror.
The sides of my nose are still red.
My fingers find the cap of the bottle, and stop.
On my phone, I look it up one more time.
Begin with the gentlest one, every other night.
Then build up, little by little.
That was what one dermatologist recommended.
Starting slowly and moisturizing, they said, eases the irritation.
Tonight, I won’t put it on.
Just toner, and my usual moisturizer.
I press my palms to my cheeks, as if to hold them.
The bottle stays where it stands, beside the mirror.
Tonight, it’s my turn to play safe.
On the nights I skip it, I feel a little unsettled.
As if I were falling asleep with something left behind somewhere.
Trying not to look at the bottle, I turned out the light.
Once the redness fades, just one drop.
The night after that, none.
On the calendar, I draw a small circle only on the nights I put it on.
Circles, and empty days, take turns down the page.
Whether six weeks will be enough, I don’t know.
If it isn’t, perhaps winter will help with the rest.
One morning a week later, the foundation sits smoothly at the sides of my nose.
The bottle is still more than half full.
Before heading out, I circled “Will attend” on the reply card to the invitation.
Every Night, I Went for It.
Why not make pool your next beauty habit?
👉 What I had been counting was what fell.
👉 See the Yokohama Billiard Hall Guide
References
– Dhaliwal, S., Rybak, I., Ellis, S. R., Notay, M., Trivedi, M., Burney, W., Vaughn, A. R., Nguyen, M., Reiter, P., Bosanac, S., Yan, H., Foolad, N. & Sivamani, R. K. (2019). Prospective, randomized, double-blind assessment of topical bakuchiol and retinol for facial photoageing. *British Journal of Dermatology*, 180(2), 289-296. doi:10.1111/bjd.16918
– American Academy of Dermatology. Retinoid or retinol? aad.org
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