Big news: Beauty ain't even skin deep

If I look like I have a bad case of Tasmanian skin-rot or worse, it's my wife's fault.

She has been after me for a couple of years to get myself back to a dermatologist whose doors I had not darkened for many moons. As usual, she was right, of course.

The dermo-lady wasted no time in zapping more than 50 "suspicious" places on my body over a two-visit treatment. She allowed as how I was among the worst candidates for skin damage caused by too much time in the sun, and she would have to see me at least every six months.

I suppose it should come as no surprise, because I, like all males who grew up in the South, spent most of my conscious hours outdoors. In fact, between Memorial Day and Labor Day, Southern lads shed all bodily adornment except for a pair of shorts. We even shed those on our almost daily trips to the creek and swimming hole. Sundays were the exception, of course, when we were required to don at least a shirt and shoes to augment our short pants for a trip to church.

As a redhead, my skin was particularly prone to blistering in the hot Southern summer sun. But I refused to let that keep me indoors, so, I just blistered, peeled and blistered again throughout the summer months. The dermatologist says, "It shows."

We didn't have real protection from the sun except the shade but how many summer activities can be enjoyed in the shade — a summer afternoon nap is the only thing that comes to mind.

The term "sun block," in fact, meant nothing more than the shadow of a tree. Or, it was something you put over the windows to block the sun out. We knew nothing of protecting our skin from the blistering effects of sun rays except "stay out of the sun" as admonished by some of the grown-ups. But no Southern kid I ever knew was willing to squander his summer fun in the sunshine by sitting on the porch.

My sister and her friends were convinced, however, that baby oil would protect you from the harmful rays of the sun. It was even better if you put a little iodine in it. I never knew it to work but the iodine did give one a sort of deep tint that I suppose was taken as "tanning." Folks would lay out in the sun all day attempting to turn their skin a couple of shades darker. Why? I don't know but it was the thing to do among the young and vain white folks.

My first trip to a dermatologist took place several years ago. Things got off to a bad start when the lady at the front desk tried to get me to sign a paper saying that I would strip down to my birthday suit for a complete skin examination. The situation was compounded by the fact that the good doctor was a female and at that point, I had never been to a doctor other than a male in my entire life. My wife reminded me later that she had seen male gynecologists, etc., all of her life. I said, "But that's different." I don't think I persuaded her.

Of course, I balked at the notion of completely disrobing and announced that my underpants were as far as I was willing to go unless a marriage license and ceremony were somehow involved. They relented and I will just have to trust providence that I have no potential cancers elsewhere.

At any rate, the doctor pulled out some sort of metal container with a trigger and a long snout. Her finger seemed a little too itchy for me, and I begged off on the basis that I was supposed to appear on television in a few days and I couldn't show up with my face all scarred. I left and it has taken years for my wife to get me back to a skin doctor. I never mentioned that my TV appearance was on the security video camera at Wal-Mart.

But lost time has been made up. I have more than 50 blistering patches on my body festering to some degree or other as a result of a little squirting bottle designed to freeze potential cancer cells. I look awful and for the past week, I have been apologizing for my appearance and explaining that, "I have nothing contagious nor have I had an encounter with an irate reader — just the handiwork of an efficient dermatologist."

The doc told me that I would have to stay out of the sun unless heavily laden with sun block and that I must anoint my body with lotion on a regular basis because of my extremely dry skin. It has taken me several days to accept the task of rubbing sweet-smelling lotion (moisturizer, they call it today) over my entire self. In addition, I will have to apply sun block every time I go outside. This stuff is greasy and makes me feel like I am about to slide out of my clothing. But manufacturers have recognized the male market and now have available unscented, nongreasy, gel-based sun screens called, "Bullfrog," "Blue Lizard," "Purple Buzzard" and the like. Now, if they can just come up with unscented, so-called "moisturizers" called something masculine-sounding like "Swamp Water," "Dank," "Slime" or "Gunk," we men folk will be set.

But the scented body lotion, excuse me, "moisturizer," makes me feel so, ah, well, effeminate.

I guess I'll get used to sun block and shade.

I don't like it.

But, as they say, "It beats the alternative."

While Mr. Brock is on vacation for several weeks, The Journal is publishing updated chapters from his book: "Southern Breezes Whistle Dixie."