“You have blackheads,” he told me. “I don’t.” I said, all the truth in my heart aflame. “You have them,” he continued, “all over your back.”
Over the next hour, he performed microscopic surgery on the expanse of flesh between my neck and shoulder blades, his fingernails and tweezers forcing dots (oil? dirt? What detritus?) from the divots in my skin.
“It’s not a big deal,” he cooed, to pacify my horror. “You just have to scrub it when you shower.”
In the shower. My average “shower” is ten minutes or less of quick-scrubbing pits, puss, ass, feet, and hair when absolutely necessary.
I do not remember the last time I washed my skin. Any of it. I smile convincingly and nod.