Preparing for a show in the Cabaret Fringe Festival is a game of logistics.
Coordinating the availability of the venue with the work schedule of your busy pianist requires patience and diplomacy.
I book a session with my cabaret mentor Catherine. We work through the whole heart surgery story and she hits on some insights that I hadn't thought of. She's looking at it from an audience point of view; what will resonate with them? I come away with pages of notes and a recording of our conversation, both of which I review later.
While I wait to be offered performance dates and times, I book a photo shoot, and in preparation for this, I decide to have some laser treatment on my face. This appointment has to fit in between a day when I'm giving three conference presentations and the day of the shoot; my face must be healed by then.
Over the past few months I've had several brown blotches treated, with good results. This pigmentation started appearing on my face when I was pregnant. It's faded a bit over the years but has never completely gone away. I want it gone.
I turn up at the clinic on Monday morning, and laser nurse Lucy ushers me into the treatment room. I point to the particular spots I'd like her to zap. She declares "You've only got sprinkles now - I'm gonna get rid of them!" I lie down on the bed and Lucy fits me with heavy, metal eye shades.
She fires up the laser and starts on one side of my face. It crackles and stings. Lucy seems a little too delighted to be wielding this tool; she almost breaks into song as she works. As I lie there, I start to realize that she's treating a much wider area than I had indicated. I wonder how much it's going to cost; not that I can do much about this now, as Lucy, with Monday-morning fervour, hoses my face liberally with a burning flame.
Since I'm there, I decide to get her to zap a brown patch on each arm. She does so, with evident pleasure.
Lucy surveys her work and exclaims happily "Ooh, you've had a good reaction!" She brings a mirror and a face from a horror movie looks back at me. "I'll bring you some ice", she chirps brightly from the next room. I slump in an arm chair and hold an icepack to my face, pressing it to my swollen skin.
Twenty minutes later I pay my account, which turns out to be quite a reasonable price. Lucy offers a parting tip: "You can put makeup over it", she says. What she omits to mention is that makeup is no match for this mess; I could put makeup on it, but it wouldn't make any difference.
My face is covered in red welts. Back at the office I explain that I'm OK, don't worry about me; it's just vanity. Next morning the swelling has gone down but the red blotches remain. I have to keep remembering to tell clients why I look so terrible; that I haven't been beaten up, I'm not sick or on medication. I try to get this out of the way early in the conversation or training session. I don't want them feeling worried for me or being distracted by the grotesque sight.
My daughter says "Mum, why do you even bother? You're married!" I tell her it still matters to me when I look in the mirror. I guess I am vain.
After a few days the redness turns to brown, and after a week it takes on more of a speckled appearance. Some patches start to flake off, revealing clear, new skin. It will probably take another week for the mottled look to subside.
By the day of the photo shoot it should be possible to cover it with makeup.
In my daily life I'll have the choice to go makeup-free, but I want a stunning new photo to publicize my new show.
On with the game face.
Coordinating the availability of the venue with the work schedule of your busy pianist requires patience and diplomacy.
I book a session with my cabaret mentor Catherine. We work through the whole heart surgery story and she hits on some insights that I hadn't thought of. She's looking at it from an audience point of view; what will resonate with them? I come away with pages of notes and a recording of our conversation, both of which I review later.
While I wait to be offered performance dates and times, I book a photo shoot, and in preparation for this, I decide to have some laser treatment on my face. This appointment has to fit in between a day when I'm giving three conference presentations and the day of the shoot; my face must be healed by then.
Over the past few months I've had several brown blotches treated, with good results. This pigmentation started appearing on my face when I was pregnant. It's faded a bit over the years but has never completely gone away. I want it gone.
I turn up at the clinic on Monday morning, and laser nurse Lucy ushers me into the treatment room. I point to the particular spots I'd like her to zap. She declares "You've only got sprinkles now - I'm gonna get rid of them!" I lie down on the bed and Lucy fits me with heavy, metal eye shades.
She fires up the laser and starts on one side of my face. It crackles and stings. Lucy seems a little too delighted to be wielding this tool; she almost breaks into song as she works. As I lie there, I start to realize that she's treating a much wider area than I had indicated. I wonder how much it's going to cost; not that I can do much about this now, as Lucy, with Monday-morning fervour, hoses my face liberally with a burning flame.
Since I'm there, I decide to get her to zap a brown patch on each arm. She does so, with evident pleasure.
Lucy surveys her work and exclaims happily "Ooh, you've had a good reaction!" She brings a mirror and a face from a horror movie looks back at me. "I'll bring you some ice", she chirps brightly from the next room. I slump in an arm chair and hold an icepack to my face, pressing it to my swollen skin.
Twenty minutes later I pay my account, which turns out to be quite a reasonable price. Lucy offers a parting tip: "You can put makeup over it", she says. What she omits to mention is that makeup is no match for this mess; I could put makeup on it, but it wouldn't make any difference.
My face is covered in red welts. Back at the office I explain that I'm OK, don't worry about me; it's just vanity. Next morning the swelling has gone down but the red blotches remain. I have to keep remembering to tell clients why I look so terrible; that I haven't been beaten up, I'm not sick or on medication. I try to get this out of the way early in the conversation or training session. I don't want them feeling worried for me or being distracted by the grotesque sight.
My daughter says "Mum, why do you even bother? You're married!" I tell her it still matters to me when I look in the mirror. I guess I am vain.
After a few days the redness turns to brown, and after a week it takes on more of a speckled appearance. Some patches start to flake off, revealing clear, new skin. It will probably take another week for the mottled look to subside.
By the day of the photo shoot it should be possible to cover it with makeup.
In my daily life I'll have the choice to go makeup-free, but I want a stunning new photo to publicize my new show.
On with the game face.
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