March 15 2010
I admit it: I’m vain but lazy – a lethal combination, especially when it comes to skincare (sporadic SPF is the best I can remember).
Two years ago, though, I found a shortcut. Every two or three months, I duck into a nondescript spa on the Lower East Side of New York. It’s nothing remarkable from the outside, but the signed magazine covers from Gisele, Rachel Weisz and co oozing gratitude that dot the walls of the lobby are a clear sign that the place is a treasure. The owner, Christine Chin (pictured), nicknamed “Mean Christine” for her take-no-prisoners approach to pampering, is the dermabrasion doyenne of New York. She makes all the effort so I don’t have to.
In less than two hours, Chin’s skin-skimming machine – part Heath Robinson, part Space 1999 – cleans my face like magic soap, leaving it fresher and less greasy than I thought possible. It’s healthy, too: my oily skin was once permanently pimpled but now a breakout is rarer than a debt-free oligarch.
I was nervous when I first allowed her to wield her special sandpaper to resurface my face – would I have to hide out for a few days while the redness, and humiliation, drained away? But I walked straight from the salon to dinner, glowing.
$250 for a two-hour Diamond Peel micro-dermabrasion with Christine Chin.