It's not that I'm obsessed with my own face, it's just that she's the only model I could book. At 10PM. In my bathroom. Hey, when the Muse calls, she must be respected.
I have an extreme fear of letting someone else's design esthetic dictate my FACE, so I can't do Botox or Fillers (tbh I don't even like folks to choose a frame for my photography, hence the ready-to-hang plexis that I swear by). I may be a control freak, but I'm totally open to getting good advice from the experts. Hence, I jumped on the derma-rolling train and I am not hopping off anytime soon.
Teeny needles plump the skin, producing collagen and prepping it for a slew of serums and creams that stand in formation on my bathroom counter like tiny soldiers, fighting for a wrinkle-free(ish) future.
I'm letting my hair go silver (or "Concrete Blonde, as I have coined the color) but I ain't lettin' the old face go to ashes. Roll on, Sisters.