Because my skin is naturally both so dry it occasionally flakes off in sheets and so sensitive that a scented candle in another apartment can cause me to break out in hives, I have devoted hours, perhaps years, of my life to massaging creams and ointments into my epidermis as if I were my own prize-winning Chinese Crested. Somewhere along the way, I came to believe in the magic of this process. Eventually, in addition to the constant lotioning, I began to periodically scrub, burn, peel and/or blast all the old skin from my body with as many products and procedures as I can afford at any given time. Slithering out of one’s top skin and immediately softening the newly revealed dermis with an assortment of potions has become more than a beauty process—it’s theurgical ritual. If no skin survives longer than a month atop my bones, I, in turn, shall live forever. So if you have a friend who, like me, knows no religion but that of the lotion bottle, I can tell you exactly what that person wants for Christmas.
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