Take Me to the Burn Unit

Three days later the heat is still radiating from my skull.

My scalp began peeling and the pain had abated; I decided I'd better shave to exfoliate it and add moisturiser.

You know, so I'd stop looking like a leper.

It went well at first, but as I progressed, the level of pain increased. My skin wasn't ready for the triple-blade assault, but I couldn't stop halfway. By the time I'd finished, I saw the problem. The top of my scalp was a deep, angry red. That it hasn't blistered is a miracle.

When I stepped into the shower, I set the water to lukewarm; hot was out of the question. The water was soothing and I thought I was past the worst of it.

Until I used shampoo.

God in Heaven, but did that hurt. Every freaking pore felt like it was on fire, but the dead skin had to come off. Once the pain had slacked off and I'd rinsed, the conditioner felt marvelous: cool and comforting.

After the shower I took some alcohol-free moisturising lotion that I use to alleviate razor-burned skin and gently rubbed it into my scalp. It did not have the intended effect.

Can you say searing flesh?

This would be a good form of torture for extracting information. I danced around the bathroom, holding in a blood-curdling scream that would have sent the neighbours running to dial 999. There was nothing I could do, short of sticking my head under the cold-water faucet, which would have defeated the purpose. It was the most intense, agonising pain I've ever felt. The shampoo was pleasant by comparison.

I'm back to square one. My head is flaming red and it feels like I've sunburned it all over again. On the bright side, I no longer look like a shedding snake.

Oh, and I found out why I'd burned; the UV Index for that day hit 12. A reading of 11 or higher is considered extreme.

So much for Hong Kong's protective layer of smog.

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