A Day at the Spa

Was treated by my hubby to a day at the Burke Williams spa. It lived up to my expectations. Nice ambiance. Classy interior. Relaxing Jacuzzi. Even the detox water with the lemon slices looks inviting. I could get used to this.

I slip into a white oversized terry robe. With my hair still damp from the shower, I feel like a hatchling newly emerged from the shell, dripping with amniotic fluid. Stripped down to my bare face with not a smidgen of make-up, I feel naked and utterly vulnerable. I am so ready for my facial.

My aesthetician/ masseuse finds me. She is skinny. Of course. Nothing like a skinny person to make you acutely conscious of every unwanted fat globule. She inspects my skin.

“Tell me about your beauty regimen” she says.

I struggle to come up with an acceptable answer.

“Ummm. I exfoliate my face in the shower then I use a moisturizer.” (I was too embarrassed to mention that I use carrot soap from the Philippines for its supposedly anti-aging qualities. May I add, for its whitening properties too?)

Did I pass? I feel like I’m taking an oral entrance exam. The prognosis seems grim. She is clucking her tongue.

“Your pores are very clogged.” (Ooopsy. Here it comes. The moment of truth.) “You have a lot of blackheads. I can remove some but I won’t have enough time to remove everything.” I wilt with shame like a flower under a nuclear sun.

She proceeds to work on my face. She is like a Gestapo with tweezers, digging out my blackheads like they were her personal enemies. My blackheads burrow deeper like facial gophers, but they are no match to her. One by one, they are dug out and left discarded and unmourned in unmarked graves. After the session, my face feels like a battlefield but my vanity quells my pain. I touch my skin. Yes, it feels soft as a baby’s bottom. One that has been spanked over and over again.

What’s next on the torture menu, Gestapo lady, I want to ask. Paraffin hand dip. “You dip your hands into hot paraffin wax three times.” (Gulp. I thought torture has been outlawed.) I dip one hand and took it out. Hey, I’m still alive. And though my hand looks like Frankenstein’s, it’s still attached to me. Good sign. I dip the other hand, feeling like a pro. She encloses both hands in a plastic bag and puts them inside big fluffy mittens.

Then she proceeds to massage me. My face. The back of my neck. My shoulders. My arms. My legs and feet. After every area, she puts a warm moist towel over it. My body quivers in grateful surrender. I am changing her name from Gestapo to … Oh, I don’t know… I can’t even think… My brain has dissolved into jello at her hands… Yes, yes, right there. Damn, this feels almost orgasmic.

As soon as I feel like abandoning myself entirely to the whole experience, she tells me time’s up. Of course. I’d be living a millionaire’s dream if I can just vegetate here in this comfy lounge chair and be massaged all day. Before I get dressed, she tells me “Aside from the blackheads, you have a beautiful skin. No wrinkles. No dark spots. No breakouts. No large pores.” Why, thank you… “However, I do recommend an exfoliant and a masque to maintain it.”

Aha! There it is. She butters me up so she can go for the kill. It worked, too. I came in resolved not to buy anything and went out with a bag full of things I probably could do without. Oh, the price you pay for beauty…

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Harold
    Apr 05, 2010 @ 21:51:24

    Again, another one of those stories that tugs at the heart in all directions. You have a knack of turning a regular day into a thriller, a comedy, a drama, some sort of PG-18 story, and an advertisement for Philippine products. Bravo, Emms!!!! I look forward to the next one.

    Reply

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