My story

My grandmother was a housewife. She had no clinic and no certificates, and she never went looking for either. In her spare time she treated the women in our family — they would come to her, sit, talk, and she would work on them with her hands. It was not a business. It was a way of giving.

I was fourteen when she taught me to shape brows and remove upper-lip hair. I remember the concentration it demanded of me, and the surprise that followed it: how such a small change — the line of a brow — changes the way someone looks at herself.

I did not know then that this would be my profession. I only knew I wanted to do it again.

In 1989 I went to study at a medical cosmetics college in Ramat Gan. That was the move from love to knowledge. Suddenly there were names for the things my grandmother did on instinct — layers of skin, structure, cause and effect.

I discovered that I do not only love to treat; I love to understand. Why one treatment works on one woman and not on another. What exactly happens beneath the skin when I do something above it.

That was the beginning of something that has not ended since: the hunger to learn.

After college I worked in other people's clinics, for many years. I learned a great deal there, including from the things I disagreed with. I saw what a treatment done too quickly looks like. I saw what happens when a client is promised something that cannot be delivered. I saw how a woman walks out when nobody has listened to her.

And alongside that I never stopped studying. Every new technology that reached the country — I went to it. Course after course, most in Israel and some across Europe. Today I hold 46 certifications. I did not collect them for the wall; each time there was a woman sitting in front of me for whom I could not do well enough, and I was not willing to accept that.

And that was also the hard part of those years, which is difficult for me to say even now: all of that knowledge went into someone else's place. I helped other clinics grow. I brought them methods and I brought them what I had learned with my own money and my own time — and not to myself.

Of all the technologies I have studied, there is one that stopped me in my tracks. The first time I saw what plasma does, I was simply astonished. I was experienced enough by then to know what counts as a good result in this field, and what I saw was beyond it.

Eyelids, scarring, stretch marks, firming — things I had had nothing real to offer for until then, and suddenly I did.

I went all the way into it, until I became a master in plasma. That is what stands at the heart of my clinic today: cold, hot and fractional plasma, for the face, the neck and the body.

In 2011 I started teaching, and I started with chemistry and cosmetic science — the layer underneath every technique. What is actually inside a preparation, why it does what it does, and what happens when you combine it with something else.

In 2016 I also became a teacher of cosmetics and technologies. I teach only qualified, certified practitioners — women who already work in the field and come to learn a new technology. That is a deliberate decision. In untrained hands the tools I teach can do harm, and I am not willing to be the route through which that happens.

That same year I began teaching podiatrists as well, specialising in working with patients who have diabetes. Skin behaves differently when someone is diabetic: it heals more slowly, and the threshold at which a treatment becomes risky is lower. Teaching that sharpened something I now apply to everyone who sits in front of me — ask before you begin, slow down when you need to, and know when the right thing to do is refer to a physician.

Teaching also changed the way I treat. When you have to explain to someone else exactly why you chose a particular protocol, you discover how much of your work has become automatic, and you are forced to think again. I have been a better practitioner since I started teaching.

In 2023 I opened my first clinic. It took me years to get there, and I do not apologise for the time. I reached a point where it was clear: I want to fulfil myself and my own dreams — not other people's.

That is what stands in Rishon LeZion today. The technologies I chose myself. A diagnostic camera that photographs and analyses skin before I decide anything. And a schedule that lets me give every woman the time she needs, without watching the clock.

I am also a mother. I know what it is to put things off for other people, and I know what it is to finally choose yourself. It took me a long time to understand that this is allowed.

There are two sentences I hear again and again from clients who were somewhere else before me: "They promised me and I didn't get it", and "They damaged me".

They come to me having already paid, already hoped, and already been let down once. Some arrive with skin that has to be repaired first. Some arrive mainly without trust.

So I always start in the same place, and it is the only way I know how to work: I analyse before I touch. And that is also why I know how to say no. I say no when the expectation is not realistic. When it is not my field and requires a physician. When the skin is not ready yet for what you asked for. And when you want everything at once, and I know that is precisely how people get hurt.

There is one treatment I carry with me.

A mother brought me her son, a young man with disabilities, for an acne facial. We did the treatment. And when we finished, he was so happy that he hugged me and did not want to leave.

I stood there and understood what I do this for. Not for the technology and not for the certificates. For exactly that moment — when someone gets up from the bed and feels differently about themselves. It is the very same moment I saw at fourteen, in my grandmother's kitchen.