Blood and Glory
Now, I’m going to blame myself for what happened next, because I hadn’t researched it properly. I’d assumed that micro-needling would be a gentle procedure, during which five or so tiny needles would be brushed against the surface of my skin by an angel on a cloud. I mean, they don’t call it macro- needling. So, I signed up for a session at Regents Park Aesthetics in London – and was instantly proved wrong.
This is what micro-needling actually entails: a medical professional rubs a pen across your face. The pen has 32 needles in its tip, each of which burrows 2mm into your skin at a rate of 12,000rpm. I was expecting five stabs, tops. If I’ve done my maths right, it was closer to seven million. Seven million face stabs. And I felt every single one of them.
Micro-needling works by creating tiny injuries to your face that your body rushes to fix. This encourages regeneration and increased collagen production, which helps you look brighter and younger, with pores that look less like meteor craters. It was good for general use, I was told, but especially great for anyone with acne scars.
However, it hurt. Jesus, God in heaven above, it hurt. Even with anaesthetic cream applied beforehand, it hurt like nothing else on Earth. It felt like getting sunburned, then having your sunburn stung by a million bees, then being waterboarded with vinegar. Halfway through the treatment – and I promise this isn’t an exaggeration – I started to