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Fireworks at the End of Summer — On Time, Relationships, and What We Choose to KeepYesterday, on my way home from Hakone...
29/08/2026

Fireworks at the End of Summer — On Time, Relationships, and What We Choose to Keep

Yesterday, on my way home from Hakone, I realized that there was going to be a fireworks display in Minato Mirai, Yokohama, so I made a last-minute detour to Yamash*ta Park.

By sheer luck, I managed to park my car in what was probably one of the best possible spots—almost right in the heart of the viewing area.

That was incredibly fortunate.

Getting home afterward, however, was another story. There was a massive traffic jam, and it took forever just to get out of the parking lot.(笑)

Still, I was glad I went.

A magnificent flower of light blooms in the night sky for just a moment, then disappears without a trace.

When I think about it, summer is almost over.

Fortunately, I was able to see fireworks at quite a few different festivals this year.

I think Japanese fireworks are a fascinating form of art.

Unlike paintings or sculptures, they leave nothing behind.

You can take photographs of them, of course. But you cannot preserve the experience itself—the sound, the vibration in the air, the smell of gunpowder, or the cheers of the people gathered around you.

Months of work go into making a single shell that exists for only a few seconds.

And the moment it opens in the night sky, its disappearance has already begun.

It is, in every sense, a beautiful and fleeting form of time-based art.

Perhaps that is precisely what makes fireworks so elegant.

As I watched them, I suddenly found myself thinking about the COVID-19 pandemic.

Fireworks festivals across Japan.

Traditional festivals.

Concerts.

Dinners with friends.

Travel.

So many things were canceled all at once simply because they involved people gathering together.

I feel that period changed my own values quite a lot.

We used to think:

“I'll go someday.”

“Let's meet again sometime.”

“There will always be next year.”

And then, one day, those things suddenly disappeared.

Time is not infinite.

And the opportunities we take for granted are not, in fact, guaranteed.

At the same time, since the pandemic, I have almost completely stopped attending networking events and study groups organized by other people.

Of course, it is different when I am invited to give a lecture. If there is a role for me to play in sharing my knowledge and experience, then I find meaning in being there.

But I no longer have much of a desire to attend something simply for the sake of expanding my network.

When I was younger, meeting people was itself closely connected to work.

You could discover unfamiliar worlds.

Learn new things.

Create opportunities for new projects.

For those reasons, going to networking events certainly had value.

But after working for a certain number of years, the way you allocate your time in life begins to change.

I already have friends.

I have professional colleagues.

And, fortunately, I have more than enough patients who continue to come to see me.

When you reach that point, you may begin to feel that rather than spending your limited time meeting people you have never met before, you would rather spend it with the people who already matter to you—with your research, your work, and the things you enjoy.

Having more connections is not necessarily better.

When you are young, who you connect with matters.

But at a certain point in life, deciding who you choose not to spend your time with becomes just as important.

The reason I stopped going to networking events is not because I became tired of being around people.

Quite the opposite.

I think I simply came to value the time I spend with the people who truly matter to me more than I did before.

There may be a time in life when you need to expand your network, and another time when you need to deepen the relationships you already have.

As I watched the fireworks at the end of summer, I found myself thinking that perhaps I am now in the latter stage.

Like fireworks, time does not come back once it has passed.

And that is why, as we grow older, perhaps the question becomes less about what we see and more about who we spend our time with, and what we choose to spend that time on.

Maybe that becomes more important with every passing year.

A Souvenir from Takarazuka — After Watching The Poe ClanI received a souvenir from Takarazuka.It was related to the Snow...
29/08/2026

A Souvenir from Takarazuka — After Watching The Poe Clan

I received a souvenir from Takarazuka.

It was related to the Snow Troupe’s production of the musical gothic The Poe Clan.

How nostalgic.

I used to read Moto Hagio’s The Poe Clan myself many years ago.

The series was originally created in the 1970s, but even when I look back at it today, it does not particularly feel like what we would call “an old girls’ manga.”

The story revolves around a family of vampires—or “Vampanella,” as they are called in the manga.

But I don't think the true subject of the story is really vampires themselves.

Rather, I think it is asking a much bigger question:

What is time?

The protagonist, Edgar, does not age.

He remains forever in the form of a young boy.

Meanwhile, the ordinary human beings around him grow up, fall in love, grow older, and eventually die.

When you read the story when you are young, it is the idea of immortality itself that captures your imagination.

But once you have grown older yourself, the story begins to look very different.

Is being young forever really a form of happiness?

You alone remain unchanged, while the people you love grow old and disappear one after another.

To be free from time, in other words, also means that you can never remain in the same place as those who live within time.

What is particularly fascinating is that a great deal of time has passed within the life of the work itself.

The Poe Clan began serialization in 1972.

Then, after a long hiatus, a new story, Spring Dream, was published in 2016.

Almost forty years had passed.

The readers had aged forty years.

The author had aged forty years.

And yet Edgar had barely changed.

There is something wonderfully strange about the way the fictional world and reality overlap like this.

Someone who read the manga when they were young might have become a parent by the time they picked up the new stories. Some might even have grandchildren.

And yet, when they opened the book, there was Edgar, looking almost exactly as he had decades earlier.

When you think about it, that is a rather extraordinary literary experience.

And I think The Poe Clan is a remarkably good fit for Takarazuka as well.

Androgynous beauty.

A world that seems to float just slightly outside reality.

Old European streets, roses, aristocratic society, and an eternally young boy.

The world of The Poe Clan overlaps beautifully with the world of Takarazuka itself—a world that is somehow a little more beautiful than reality.

All I received was a small souvenir from Takarazuka, but it suddenly brought back a whole collection of memories of a manga I had read long ago.

Books are fascinating that way.

The same work can sometimes feel like a completely different story when you read it at twenty, forty, or sixty.

The work itself has not changed.

What has changed is the person reading it.

In that sense, The Poe Clan may be a particularly special work.

You can look at Edgar, who never grows old, while at the same time becoming aware of yourself growing older.

There are not many manga that allow you to read them in quite that way.

Managers Who Can Recognize Talent, and Those Who Cannot — What Are We Really Measuring When We Evaluate People?When I wa...
29/08/2026

Managers Who Can Recognize Talent, and Those Who Cannot — What Are We Really Measuring When We Evaluate People?

When I was a young physician working in a university department, I rotated through several affiliated hospitals.

Something strange happened to me.

I was the same person wherever I went, yet in most places I was evaluated reasonably well. There was, however, one place where I was hardly evaluated positively at all.

It was not as though I had suddenly become incapable of doing my job.

Looking back, perhaps the problem was simply that I did not get along particularly well with my immediate supervisor. We were relatively close in age, which may have played a role.

Of course, I have no idea what that person actually thought of me. I should not create a story after the fact and pretend to know.

But I found myself remembering this experience many times later, after I became responsible for hiring and evaluating people myself.

It made me wonder:

What are we actually evaluating when we “evaluate a person”?

The Same Person Can Receive a Completely Different Evaluation Under a Different Boss

If performance evaluation were an objective measurement, like a blood test, the result should not change very much when the person doing the evaluating changes.

But that is not how organizations work in the real world.

Someone who is highly regarded by one manager may receive a poor evaluation from another.

And the reverse is also true.

This phenomenon has been studied in organizational psychology for many years.

A 1988 study by Turban and Jones, published in the Journal of Applied Psychology, reported that similarity between supervisors and subordinates was associated with how supervisors perceived and evaluated their subordinates.

Journal of Applied Psychology, 1988;73:228–234. {3384773}

In other words, we do not evaluate other people in a vacuum.

We see them through the lens of our own relationship with them.

My Three-Variable Model of Talent Evaluation

I have come to think that it may be useful to conceptualize the evaluation of a person with a simple formula:

Evaluation received from a supervisor = Individual ability × Fit with the supervisor × The supervisor’s ability to evaluate people

This is, of course, not a mathematically validated equation.

It is simply a conceptual model I developed from my own experience.

The first variable is the individual’s ability.

That could be clinical ability, research ability, sales ability, or anything else.

The second is the degree of fit between the person and the supervisor.

Their approach to work.
Their values.
Their communication style.
Their speed of thinking.
Their willingness to take risks.

When these characteristics align, people tend to find it much easier to work together.

In fact, research has suggested that deeper similarities in values and cognitive styles between supervisors and subordinates are associated with better Leader-Member Exchange, or LMX—the quality of the relationship between leaders and their subordinates.

Frontiers in Psychology, 2022;13:879284. {35645907}

A 2025 study also reported a relationship between similarity in cognitive styles and Leader-Member Exchange.

Frontiers in Psychology, 2025;16:1583837. {40606886}

The third variable is where things become interesting.

Does the supervisor themselves have the ability to recognize talent in other people?

This is surprisingly easy to overlook.

An Ordinary Manager Evaluates People Who Fit Their Own Style

To some extent, this is simply human nature.

Someone who understands your instructions immediately.

Someone whose values are similar to yours.

Someone who moves at the same speed you do.

It is natural to feel that such a person is highly capable.

But if that is all you are doing, you are not really evaluating talent.

You are simply evaluating compatibility.

A truly exceptional manager looks one level deeper.

Can they think:

“This person and I are not a good fit. But there is something here.”

I believe that is where the real ability to recognize talent begins.

It Is Easy to Appreciate People Who Are Like You

What is much harder is recognizing the talent of someone who is completely different from you.

“I would never do it that way.”

“I would never have thought of that.”

“I would never have chosen that career.”

And yet, can you still say:

“But this person is better than I am at this particular ability.”

I believe that is an extremely sophisticated skill for a manager to have.

And a supervisor and subordinate having different personalities does not necessarily mean the relationship will be a bad one.

Glomb and colleagues examined the effects of personality dissimilarity between supervisors and subordinates and showed that the relationship is more complicated than the simple assumption that “similarity is always better.”

Journal of Applied Psychology, 2005;90:749–757. {16060791}

In other words, truly strong organizations are not organizations that gather together people who are alike.

They are organizations that allow different kinds of talent to coexist.

Are Managers Who Are Close in Age More Difficult to Work With?

This is a hypothesis based on my own experience, and I do not have enough evidence to generalize it.

But in a hierarchical organization such as a university medical department, a professor twenty years older than a trainee naturally creates a relatively straightforward teacher-student relationship.

When a supervisor and subordinate are only a few years apart in age, however, the subordinate can sometimes become not only someone to be taught, but also someone to be compared with.

Research achievements.

Clinical ability.

Patient evaluations.

Professional networks.

Future positions.

Of course, there is no rule saying that relationships necessarily become worse when people are close in age.

In fact, they can often become excellent working relationships.

But when a relationship of hierarchy is combined with a relationship of comparison, personnel evaluation can become more complicated.

I think this is a useful perspective to keep in mind when thinking about organizations.

Someone Who Was Overlooked in One Place May Flourish Somewhere Else

There is another extremely important point.

It is entirely possible that someone who was not highly regarded in one environment genuinely was not able to demonstrate their abilities there.

But that is not the same thing as saying:

“This person has no talent.”

The same is true of plants.

No one would look at a plant that fails to thrive in the shade and conclude,

“This plant has no capacity for growth.”

Change the location.

Change the soil.

Change the amount of light.

And suddenly, it may begin to flourish.

People are probably much the same.

What Makes a Great Manager?

These days, I think there may be three levels of leadership ability.

A first-rate player produces results personally.

A first-rate manager enables other people to produce results.

And then there is the highest level:

A first-rate leader discovers talent that the person themselves has not yet recognized.

That is the hardest of all.

It is easy to recognize someone who is already producing results.

You do not need much insight into people to look at a student who scores 100 out of 100 and say, “This student is excellent.”

The real question is whether you can look at someone who is scoring only 70 and think:

“Perhaps, in the right environment, this person could score 150.”

That is where the ability to see people really reveals itself.

Performance Evaluation Does Not Evaluate Only the Employee

During my years in the university medical department, there was that one place where I was hardly evaluated positively at all.

At the time, I simply thought:

“I guess this person and I just don't get along.”

But decades later, after becoming someone responsible for managing and evaluating other people myself, I see the experience a little differently.

An evaluation does not contain information only about the person being evaluated.

When we look at the data point, “Person A rated Person B this way,” it contains a great deal of information not only about Person B, but also about Person A, the evaluator.

Whom do they rate highly?

Whom do they rate poorly?

What do they consider talent?

What do they consider a weakness?

All of these things reflect the evaluator’s own values and assumptions.

That is why, when I look at personnel evaluations now, I think we need to consider not only:

“What score did this person receive?”

but also:

“Who gave them that score?”

Perhaps the ability to see people is not really the ability to see who they are today.

Perhaps it is the ability to see who they might become somewhere else.

And if that is true, then recognizing talent is not merely a human-resources skill.

It is, in a sense, the ability to see the future.

After Watching Dear Family — Sometimes Medical Devices Are Born from Sheer DeterminationI recently watched Dear Family, ...
29/08/2026

After Watching Dear Family — Sometimes Medical Devices Are Born from Sheer Determination

I recently watched Dear Family, starring Yo Oizumi, on Netflix.

It was a very good film.

What makes this story so remarkable, I think, is that it is not simply a success story about a small-town factory that went on to develop a groundbreaking medical device.

The story begins somewhere much more personal, and much more urgent.

He wanted to save his daughter.

That was all.

His daughter had a congenital heart condition and had been given a limited life expectancy. Her father, a man with no background whatsoever in medicine, decided to throw himself into the development of medical devices in an attempt to save her.

By any ordinary measure, it was reckless.

He had no medical training.
No experience developing medical devices.
There were regulations to deal with.
He needed funding.

And above all, there was no time.

Yet he did not begin by asking whether it was possible or impossible.

He began from the point of “There is no choice but to do it.”

I think that is the most powerful part of the film.

There is another reason this story resonated so strongly with me.

The daughter who inspired the story was born in 1968, making her almost exactly my generation.

The moment I saw the number “1968,” this stopped feeling like a story from some distant past.

If she had lived and remained healthy, she would have breathed the same air we did, listened to the same music, watched the same television programs, and grown older in the same era as the rest of us.

Instead, she died young, and within the limited time she had, her father devoted himself to creating a medical device that might save her.

When I thought about it that way, the weight of the story felt completely different.

I have personally been involved with medical devices for many years.

Today, I understand just how many formidable barriers stand between an idea and an actual medical device reaching patients: medicine, engineering, regulatory approval, clinical trials, intellectual property, manufacturing, quality control, and much more.

That is precisely why I find what this father did so extraordinary.

A man with no connection to medicine simply entered that world because he was a father.

That is no small thing.

And yet, when you think about it, perhaps this is how major innovations sometimes begin.

When you work in medicine, it is easy to assume that new technologies and medical devices are born in universities or corporate research laboratories.

Of course, many are.

But every now and then, something entirely new emerges from somewhere completely unexpected.

It begins the moment someone thinks:

“This situation cannot continue.”

“The methods we have now cannot save this person.”

“Then I will make something myself.”

The problem comes before the research proposal.

The patient comes before the market research.

And the determination comes before the technology.

Dear Family reminded me of that order of things.

What makes the story even more beautiful is that a challenge that began with the desire to save just one daughter eventually led to a medical device that helped save many other patients.

A desire to save one person ultimately went on to change medicine for society as a whole.

There are moments like this in the history of medical technology.

And interestingly, the people who make such things happen often say afterward that what they did was nothing special.

The real-life figure on whom the story is based, Nobumasa Tsutsui, has spoken about how desperate he was at the time, and how there simply was no option of choosing not to do it.

That part also stayed with me.

He was not trying to become a hero.

He was not trying to become famous.

He was not thinking from the beginning about building a major business.

He was simply a father.

So he did it.

There is something extraordinarily powerful about that simplicity.

I have spent many years looking at medical devices, and I have come to believe that every truly good medical device has a reason behind it—a clear answer to the question:

“Why does this need to exist?”

High output.

A new wavelength.

Superior specifications.

Of course, all of these things matter.

But before any of them comes a more fundamental question:

“Whose problem are we trying to solve, and what exactly are we trying to solve?”

A device whose purpose is unclear may be technologically impressive, but it is unlikely to stand the test of time.

By contrast, technology built around a clearly defined problem is powerful.

Medical devices are often discussed in terms of numbers alone:

wavelength, output, pulse duration, energy density, treatment outcomes.

But behind that very first device, there is often a deeply personal and urgent story:

Someone wanted to save someone else.

Medicine is science.

Medical devices are engineering.

But the energy that sets that science and engineering in motion is not necessarily science or engineering itself.

Perhaps it is something much more human:

“I want to save this person.”

That is what I found myself thinking after the film ended.

The phrase “medical innovation” can sound a little grand.

Cutting-edge technology.
Venture capital.
University spinouts.
AI.
Robotics.

Of course, all of these can be innovation.

But the true beginning is often much smaller.

You simply want to do something—anything—to help the one person standing right in front of you.

And sometimes, something that begins with that single desire eventually becomes a technology that saves thousands, or even tens of thousands, of people.

Perhaps the history of medical technology is, in the end, a cumulative record of these deeply human motivations.

Dear Family is a film about family.

It is also a film about medicine.

And it is a film about making things.

But more than anything, it is a film about one simple truth:

Sometimes, technology is born from the relentless determination of someone who simply refuses to give up.

I think this is a film worth watching—not only for those working in medicine, but for anyone who is trying to create something new.

Why Were Fractional Lasers So Revolutionary?From “Improving” the Skin to “Replacing” ItThere are countless treatments in...
29/08/2026

Why Were Fractional Lasers So Revolutionary?
From “Improving” the Skin to “Replacing” It

There are countless treatments in aesthetic medicine designed to lighten pigmentation, reduce redness, or make pores less visible.

But that is not what made fractional lasers revolutionary.

The real breakthrough lies somewhere much deeper.

Instead of simply making the skin we already have a little better, the idea was to deliberately destroy tiny portions of aged skin and stimulate the body to rebuild them as new tissue.

In other words, it is not simply “repair.”

It is replacement.

Think of an old house.

If the walls are slightly dirty, you can clean them. If there is a small scratch, you can repair it.

But if you really want to restore a wall that has deteriorated over many years, it may be better to strip away the damaged material and rebuild it with something new.

Skin works in a somewhat similar way.

When skin changes as a result of ultraviolet exposure and aging, it is not simply a matter of discoloration. The structure of the epidermis changes, and so does the collagen architecture in the dermis.

Many conventional aesthetic lasers have traditionally targeted a specific “problem”: pigment for spots, blood vessels for redness, and so on.

Fractional lasers changed that concept one step further.

They create countless microscopic treatment zones within the skin, each narrower than a human hair.

They do not destroy the entire surface of the skin.

Instead, treated areas and intact, healthy skin are left side by side.

That was the breakthrough.

If you ablate the entire surface, you can certainly achieve extensive resurfacing. But recovery takes longer, and redness and inflammation can be much more pronounced.

So the concept was turned upside down.

You don't have to replace everything at once.

You can create tiny areas of controlled injury, and allow the surrounding healthy skin to help drive the healing process.

In other words:

You create countless tiny “construction sites” inside aged skin, where the tissue can begin the process of rebuilding itself.

And then you harness the body's own wound-healing capacity.

The epidermis regenerates, while collagen in the dermis undergoes remodeling.

The laser itself does not create new skin.

The laser simply tells the skin:

“Rebuild this area.”

The body does the real work afterward.

I find this aspect particularly fascinating.

When people think of aesthetic medicine, they often imagine adding something.

Injecting hyaluronic acid.

Inserting threads.

Delivering drugs or other agents.

Fractional lasers work in the opposite direction.

First, you create a very small, controlled injury.

Then you let the body rebuild itself.

It is a treatment that makes use of both destruction and regeneration.

Of course, this does not mean that the entire skin of the face is literally exchanged for brand-new skin.

More precisely, I think of it as a treatment in which small portions of the skin are gradually replaced, over and over again, while the tissue as a whole is progressively remodeled.

That is why fractional lasers are not simply machines for “making the skin look better.”

They helped move aesthetic medicine

from treating the surface to reconstructing the tissue itself.

So, are all fractional lasers basically the same?

This is where things get interesting.

There are many different fractional laser systems around the world.

CO₂ lasers.

Er lasers.

1927 nm thulium-based lasers.

2910 nm fiber lasers.

And hybrid systems such as HALO, which combine multiple wavelengths.

So what is the difference?

I think it is more important to look at what each system actually does inside the skin than to focus on the name of the machine.

After all, the interaction between laser light and skin is ultimately a matter of physics.

For resurfacing lasers, one of the major targets is water.

Skin contains a great deal of water.

And when the wavelength changes, the way that light is absorbed by water changes as well.

As a result, the following all change:

How deeply the light penetrates.

How much tissue is ablated.

And how much residual heat remains in the tissue.

Once you understand this, the individual personalities of different lasers become much easier to appreciate.

CO₂ Lasers — Ablation Plus Residual Heat

The 10,600 nm CO₂ laser is strongly absorbed by water in the skin and vaporizes tissue.

In other words, it is an ablative laser.

But the defining characteristic of CO₂ is not simply that it removes tissue.

It also leaves a relatively large zone of residual thermal injury around the ablated area.

That heat causes collagen contraction and promotes subsequent tissue remodeling.

This is why CO₂ lasers remain extremely powerful tools for deep wrinkles, acne scars, and other conditions requiring substantial resurfacing.

The downside is equally clear.

The greater the thermal effect, the greater the potential for downtime, prolonged erythema, inflammation, and post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation.

So if I had to describe CO₂ in one phrase, it would be:

“Ablation plus residual heat.”

It is powerful.

And that is precisely why it requires careful handling.

Er 2940 nm — Precise, Clean Ablation

The 2940 nm Er laser also targets water.

But it is absorbed by water even more strongly than CO₂, meaning that the energy is deposited very close to the skin surface.

As a result, tissue can be vaporized extremely efficiently.

In other words:

It is a laser that can ablate tissue with remarkable precision and cleanliness.

An interesting point here is that strong absorption by water does not necessarily mean “extremely hot.”

Because the energy can be consumed so rapidly at the target site, certain settings can minimize unnecessary residual heat in the surrounding tissue.

That is one of the major differences from CO₂.

However, even with Er, thermal effects can be deliberately increased by using longer pulse durations.

So it would also be inaccurate to simply say:

“Er produces little heat.”

Laser behavior is not determined by wavelength alone.

1927 nm — Gently Remodeling the More Superficial Layers

The 1927 nm laser is one of the representative wavelengths used for non-ablative fractional treatment.

Rather than extensively removing tissue, it creates microscopic zones of thermal injury in the epidermis and superficial dermis.

That makes it particularly useful for conditions such as:

Pigmentation and uneven skin tone.

Photodamage.

And overall skin quality.

Unlike CO₂ or Er, which can be thought of as literally creating microscopic channels through tissue by ablation, 1927 nm treatment is more like placing countless small thermal stimuli in the superficial skin and gradually encouraging renewal.

Its ability to promote skin renewal while keeping downtime relatively limited is what makes this wavelength so interesting.

2910 nm — Precisely Controlling How Tissue Is Ablated

One of the more interesting recent developments is the 2910 nm fiber laser.

Its wavelength is very close to that of the 2940 nm Er laser.

So you might assume they are essentially the same.

But it is not quite that simple.

With lasers, skin response depends not only on wavelength, but also on:

How quickly the energy is delivered.

How much energy is delivered.

How frequently it is delivered.

And over what area.

A 2910 nm fiber laser can deliver small amounts of energy at high speed and with highly controlled spatial distribution.

In other words, the concept is not simply to control how deeply tissue is ablated, but to precisely control how the ablation itself is performed.

You can treat superficially and gently, or change the parameters to achieve a deeper treatment.

It feels like laser engineering has moved to another level.

HALO — Don't Ask One Laser to Do Everything

The concept behind HALO is even more interesting.

Instead of asking a single wavelength to perform every task, it combines wavelengths that are better suited to different depths.

A 1470 nm wavelength creates thermal coagulation deeper in the tissue, while 2940 nm is used for superficial ablation.

In other words:

Treat the deeper layers thermally. Ablate the superficial layers. Let each wavelength do what it does best.

More recently, approaches combining 1927 nm as well have introduced the idea of treatment across three wavelength domains.

Deep layers.

Superficial layers.

The surface.

Each can be designed separately.

At this point, laser treatment begins to resemble something closer to three-dimensional tissue engineering than conventional resurfacing.

So Which Laser Is the Best?

This is a question I am often asked by patients.

But I don't think the question itself is particularly meaningful.

CO₂ is the strongest, so it must be the best.

Er produces less residual heat, so it must be the best.

The newer 2910 nm technology must be the best.

HALO combines multiple wavelengths, so it must be the best.

It simply does not work that way.

The important question is:

What are we trying to treat?

Deep acne scars require sufficient depth.

For uneven pigmentation, the superficial layers may be the primary target.

For fine wrinkles, we may want dermal remodeling.

And with Asian skin, the risk of post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation must also be taken into account.

The choice will also be different for someone who needs to return to work the next day and someone who can afford to take a week off.

So the real question is not:

“Which machine is the best?”

It is:

How deep should the treatment go, how much injury should be created, and at what density?

Laser treatment is a form of medicine in which we design the biological response we want to create inside the skin by combining parameters such as:

Wavelength.

Energy.

Pulse duration.

Depth.

Treatment density.

Spot size.

Twenty years ago, the revolution brought about by fractional lasers was the discovery that:

“We don't have to destroy the entire skin surface.”

And now we are moving beyond that.

How deep?

How wide?

At what density?

How much residual heat should remain?

How much tissue should be ablated?

We are increasingly able to design all of these variables.

I don't think the future of aesthetic lasers lies simply in developing more powerful lasers.

Rather, it lies in creating the right amount of injury, in the right place, and only where it is needed.

The goal is to generate the maximum regenerative and remodeling response with the minimum necessary injury.

Over the past two decades, aesthetic lasers have evolved

from machines that “burn the skin” into precision tools for tissue engineering—designed to rebuild the skin itself.

That, I believe, is how far the field has come.

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