Facial

Being a mortal implies that I am aging. About two years ago, Chui came from no where and without muttering her words told me, “Dale, you really have aged”. Somehow I remembered the details. We were on our holidays and waiting for the lights to change at a traffic junction when those words came through my ears. I went on to purchase a small container of face moisturizer which I hardly use.

Recently, Chui had noticed that I was having a little breakout of pimples. She taunted me that I was experiencing a second puberty and proposed that I come along with her for a facial. She cited that her new facial venue recommended by a good friend, charged reasonably and offered good service.

I succumbed to her persuasion and had my first official facial.  My patience was slightly tested by the unending application, spreading and massaging of multiple creams, and the unclogging of 44 years of blackheads and oil bumps. The only accompaniment helping with my growing restlessness were the radio songs streaming from 88.3FM. While the lady boss administered most of the creaming and cleansing process, a segment of the exfoliation was attended by her assistant.  I had earlier captured the countenance of the assistant, and had immediately categorized her as a foreigner in my mind.

A familiar tune came through the airwaves and I mentioned that the song was about racism among other issues that were lyricize. I was expecting Chui to get into the conversation but instead the assistant responded and affirmed my comments, and even answered my query on the name of the group. She spoke confidently in good English with a local accent. I was wrong, as I had stereotyped her. I felt embarrassed. Besides leaving with a super nourished and clean face, I took away a learning reminder – don’t judge a mortal by the face!

(Here’s the song that we conversed about: Where is the Love? by The Black Eyed Peas)

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