My face is jacked. Apparently being a “middle aged” woman (as someone at work recently called me) doesn’t mean that I get to have clear skin. So I decided I would try an “Outer Peace” Facial. I suppose the salon thinks that sounds better than an Anti-Pimple-Face Facial.
I arrive at the spa, get checked-in and am escorted into the “spa area.” I sit waiting in the dark room with what I can only assume is Enya playing. Oh, who am I kidding? I know Enya. It’s Enya. Take me away on your Orinoco Flow, Enya. It’s all quite relaxing. Little did I know the waiting area would end up being the most relaxing part of the visit.
From that dark room the “spa specialist” takes me into another dark room. I realize now that it was dark to hide the various medieval torture devices that are stored in there somewhere. She then shows me what I’ll be changing into. I’m there for a facial, but the chick is asking me to take off my top. I think I saw a story like that on Dateline the other day. There’s a hidden camera in that room somewhere.
I should have known this girl was a sadist. What kind of person wants to pop people’s pimples for a living? There’s a screw loose in that head somewhere.
I start out believing the “relaxation” lie. “This is going to be so nice and pampering” I think to myself. I close my eyes and try to calm my mind. Then she touches my face and I flinch. I then spend a good 5 minutes telling myself “Relax. Relax yourself damn it!” I don’t want this girl to think I’m uptight. Heaven forbid the pimple Nazi should think ill of me. Sure she’s smearing all kinds of freezing cold liquids on various parts of my body that I don’t see coming, but I mustn’t freak.
I start giving into it. A hot towel here, a spritz of some eucalyptus thing there. Then out comes the steamer. Mmmm… that feels… like a bunch of hot steam shooting right up my nose. Sexy. My asthmatic lungs were totally digging it too. But hey, no pain, no gain, right?
Then for some reason she starts rubbing my feet. Granted, she warned me ahead of time and I said okay. What was I going to say, no? A foot massage sounds nice. Not loving the idea of her going from face, to feet, back to face, but I’m sure she’ll wash her hands… well, I’m pretty sure.
Apparently foot massage means “try to pull my leg out of my hip socket massage.” That’s fine. I’m lopsided now. It’s all good. Then she tries to pull my big toe off. Huh. Maybe I just carry a lot of tension in my big toe. I used to be a dancer after all. I’m sure this is my fault. The pain is probably good for me. Ahhhh… listen to that sitar play!
Then a pinch. Something sharp on my face. Oh, that pricks a little, but it’s bearable. Wait… now she’s digging it further into my face. We gonna play it that way, huh homey?
She continues to dig the what I can only assume is a rusty nail into my face. Over and over. And I mean DIGGING it into my face. I’m pretty sure she’s trying to hit bone.
Then she moves onto my nose which apparently requires more of a scraping action. My skin won’t be broken out if she just scraps all of it off. Good plan.
Pinch. Wipe. Stab. Wipe. Scrap. Wipe. Obviously the wiping is to clean off the pint of blood seeping from my face. But at least now they’re rocking a Celtic Moods CD. That takes all my worries away.
They finish off by wrapping another scaulding hot towel around my tenderized face. Nothing like extreme heat on freshly poked skin. Aaaaand… finally we’re done. “How do you feel?” the pimple nazi asks. “Good” I squeek out through what’s left of my face.
She leaves me alone to get dressed and I immediately search the room trying to find the rusty nail. Seriously. WHAT THE F*&% was she just using on my face? Any trace of it has been hidden away now. Tricky little pimple Nazi. You win this round.
I then get to finish my experience by being escorted back out into the brightly lit entrance so I can pay. I can only imagine what my face looks like. I see a mother cover her child’s eyes and run off screaming. This has got to be good.
I get in my car and holy mother. As someone who doesn’t even like to be in public without makeup on a good day, the sight of my face is more than shocking. I abruptly decide to cancel any plans for the day and sit in my apartment alone in the dark, hiding my face from the world. Maybe I’ll work on learning how to play the organ or something.
What’s the point that this Snarky Self-Helper is trying to make? Nothing. I’m just bitching. But with all that said, if my face looks better in the next couple days then I will totally go back and do it all again. Beauty ain’t easy, bitches.