A couple of days ago, I went with a friend for my second-ever facial. The first one was about five years ago, and while it was nice, it wasn't something I came home raving about and eagerly anticipating my next one. I didn't go actively seeking this one either - one morning my local Groupon delivered to my inbox a deal for an anti-aging and "photo rejunvenation" facial. A really good deal, and still stinging from my recent birthday which is already 9 months past, I decided to go for it. My friend was thrilled to take part and we were happy to spend the day together.
It ended up that she spent most of the day in the car battling Saturday morning traffic to NJ from Long Island, but once there, we were whisked into separate tiny rooms at the salon. The room was dimly lit, soft music playing, and a small bed in the middle of the room with a purple velvet comforter on top of it. The woman indicated a small terry wrap lying on a side table, suggested I put it on and left the room. As I undressed I felt a bit like I was expecting a doctor to come in, but quickly dismissed that thought as NOTHING in the room even remotely resembled my doctor's office. (Thankfully. That would have been disturbing.)
I liked my facialist (is that a word? Face master?) from the start because she was small and seemed very mild-mannered. While a heavy accent prevented me from understanding everything she was saying, I felt pretty comfortable with her.
The session started with a blast of hot steam on my face. I tried to quell my inner wishes for that part to end quickly because, well, it was HOT. It's kind of difficult to breathe properly when hot steam is shooting up your nose. Unfortunately, it continued for a while, and I tried to relax as she slapped one cool gloppy cream after another on my face while I breathed in steam.
Then the massage started. I guess there are only so many creams and high-tech gadgets they can use on your face to fill up the time before they resort to just, you know, rubbing it. I've never been a fan of massages, and while I knew this was coming, I didn't know she would be massaging my EYEBALLS. Eyes closed, I suddenly felt her fingertips on top of my eyes as she started to knead. I tried to just go with it until I remembered... I have contacts! She started to rub harder and I quietly interrupted and told her that she would need to be a little gentler on my eyes since I had contacts in. All I needed was to lose one somewhere on the back of my eyeball, which would be annoying in and of itself, but couple that with the fact that I wouldn't be able to make the hour drive home and it would just be downright irritating. Actually, I probably could have done it, as I can still see, albeit blurrily, large objects such as lanes and cars. It's the smaller stuff like signs that elude me... and maybe even dotted lines on the road too... and police lights... (Anyway, two contact lens rinses after the facial was over and I was good to go.)
As she quietly moved from step to step, I wondered what exactly she was doing. I suppose you're expected to just trust them, but she could have been bleaching my skin for all I knew and I wouldn't have been the wiser. (Not that anyone would have noticed.) So when I heard one particularly ominous-sounding whirring sound begin, I decided to ask what that was for. Again, the language barrier was a bit of a problem, but I got the gist of it and she began haltingly to explain what she was doing as she started something new. I figured as long as I wasn't hearing words like "searing," "bleeding," or "melting flesh," then I was pretty safe. I began to relax.
Wait. I don't have to pee, do I? No, of course not. I just went less than an hour ago before the facial began! I pushed that ridiculous thought out of my mind as soon as it surfaced.
As I lie there, relaxing of course, I started to feel a warm, gooey sensation on my eyebrow. Um, what? Oh... um...
"I do your eyebrows? Yes?"
"Um..." I was undecided. I wanted to do the wax but I was afraid. What if it was really painful and I passed out on the bed? Sure, that would cure my wriggling around on the table trying to prevent my back from getting stiff, and it would also solve the having-to-pee feeling, but I'd rather not leave myself so vulnerable like that. As I was mulling my fate, the facial master took my indecision as an answer.
"Ok, yes I do it. Yes yes," she nodded. (I assume she was nodding. I couldn't see her.) I tried to protest, weakly, but her mind was made up and I was just along for the ride. I was surprised and pleased at how little it hurt. Displeased, however, when she slapped some of it in between my brows. EXCUSE me? Are you insinuating that I have a unibrow?! A few stray hairs here and there do not a unibrow make, my Asian friend. However, I kept my mouth shut for the sake of vanity and the peaceful zen vibe of the salon.
A short while later, while I continued to fight off ever-growing sensations of having to empty my bladder, she began the last part of the facial, which was the photojuvenation part. This involved more gloppy creams on my face followed by a smooth wand shooting light beams into my skin. From what I could gather, the light would help the send all of the wonderful vitamins or whatever kind of crap is in a mask down to the base of the skin instead of just lying around on top where it wouldn't do anything. So I obediently laid as still as I could for the next 10 or so minutes while she used this light saber on my face. When the light saber portion was over, she laid small hot cloths on my eyes, wrapped my entire face in plastic wrap except for my nostrils and mouth, and whispered, "Now I give you nice massage."
Great. Massage again? Why did these people have to keep rubbing me? This time, it was the neck, shoulders and upper arms. Her gentle voice and timid giggle did nothing to prepare me for what was to come next. Apparently, at some point while I laid there with my eyes closed, she secretly switched places with a 400-pound sumo wrestler who proceeded to beat the crap out of me for the next 5 or so minutes. She started SMACKING ME on the upper arms for no apparent reason. Had I done something wrong? Verbalized some of my thoughts? Was she trying to smack the pee out of me once and for all? Whatever the reason, she seemed to take great delight in slapping, punching, and overzealously kneading my muscles as I tried my best to be tough and not protest. After all, people pay good money to be beaten up by a masseuse like this. I'm supposed to enjoy it!
By this point, I was just looking for a good window of opportunity to excuse myself to use the bathroom. But how could I? My face was wrapped up like a mummy. I didn't want to look like an idiot and risk it all sliding off my face so that I could pee. Surely this had to be almost over - I wouldn't know, because I hadn't seen the clock in at least 45 minutes, but it just felt like the end had to be near. She would probably take the mask off when she was finished beating me up.
Suddenly, the dim light that I could make out from behind my eyelids and underneath the cloths was switched off and I heard the door close. Silence. I was alone. Alone, my face immobilized in plastic wrap and eyes shut, in the dark, lying on a bed, with my legs wrapped around each other like a pretzel from having to pee so bad. Great. Now what? I would have laughed except that I couldn't move my mouth. I did chuckle on the inside at the absurdity of the situation, all the while a nagging thought at the back of my mind: You know, if I were the claustrophobic type, I might start panicking at this particular moment. But thankfully, I'm not. Or am I? I can't remember. I don't think so, but if I'm left here too much longer, I might turn into one. They would find me hunched over and crying, plastic wrap hanging in shreds off of my face, having slipped and fallen in a puddle of the facial mask that dripped off my cheeks, lying face down in a pool of my own urine. The main problem was not knowing how long I would be lying there. Five minutes? Ten? What the hell time is it, anyway? Is there an alarm button somewhere I can press?
Thankfully, she returned not two minutes later. (Which also begs the question, what was I supposed to do during that time? Nap? For two minutes? I can't fall asleep at will that way. And even if I started to doze off during that time, she would have just awakened me as I was getting nice and sleepy and dozy. Which then would have left me groggy and extremely cranky.) Fortunately it was time to de-mummify my face and wipe off all of the glop. I thanked her profusely for a job well done. Well, she did do a great job. A+ for enthusiasm! I waited what I felt was an appropriate (short) period of time to smile and thank her for the experience before darting to the bathroom.
When it was all over, I didn't feel I looked any younger, although my skin was nice and soft. According to the salon's Web site, you're supposed to have 5 or 6 of these treatments to get the "full effect." If I spent that much money on these facials I probably could just get a facelift instead. Instead of looking younger, I looked like I'd been put through the wringer - shiny, greasy skin, greasy hairline, red spots around my eyebrows and especially in between (damn nonexistent unibrow) and, of course, no makeup. I still expect the bruises to show up on my upper arms any day now. Thankfully beauty is only skin deep, because otherwise, I'd have to come into some serious money.
This morning I received another Groupon: a detoxifying seaweed body wrap, claiming to reduce cellulite, saggy skin, and stretch marks. That sounds awesome! I don't really NEED that, but who can resist such a deal? A 50-minute body wrap, where I assume you can't move a muscle... that's ok, I can do it. I'll just make sure to use the bathroom beforehand.
