Misstropolis

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Ick

by Lenore Shannon

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I’m a dirty girl. My hair is stringy and oily, my skin is a greasy mess and there’s a mildewy type smell following me around. 

No, I did not just disembark from the back of an airplane. In fact, I’ve been at a fancy hotel for the past hour and a half, having a “facial.” Uh-oh, bear with me a sec.; some of the “serum” that was applied to my face has coated my contact lenses and is burning the shit out of my eyes.

There, that’s better; contacts in the garbage, and eyeglasses on, even though they keep sliding down my nose. So here’s the story: my editor asked if I would be interested in checking out this special facial that is supposed to be good for collagen renewal. Sure I said, sounds like a nice gig, and facials are always pleasant, right?  Besides my chin needs all the help it can get.

Upon arrival I am greeted by my young spa attendant, who seems very nice and personable, and who informs me that she is new at this, having just completed training with these products in January. Oh. Editor had not mentioned trainee. As I strip off my clothes and get under the blanket my sense of utter vulnerability sinks in. But, facials are always pleasant, right?

There is a large steam machine gurgling loudly over my head, and also over the “birds singing in paradise” music, which I happily tolerate when in spaville. Early on, I learn that the steam is only part of the spa-cophony which will rattle my increasingly raw nerves as the hour goes on. The floor of the treatment room is tiled and the rolling stool that my attendant is sitting on clatters noisily back and forth across; I can barely hear the birds at all. 

My newly-trained attendant has not done her mis-en-place, so in addition to the gurgling steam, the clattering stool and a tweet tweet here and there, there is a lot of prep work going on over my head: screwing and unscrewing this lid and that, here and there, mixing creams, powders, etc. Also, and too bad for me, my attendant does not have a light touch. Stuff gets slathered on and wiped off like spice rub on a flank steak.

The hour facial is divided into five small parts, separated by some hand and face massage in the middle. The first part leads up to an exfoliating treatment called a glycolic, essentially a watered down chemical peel. A rough terry washcloth wipes it all off. Fast. Ouch. Then a face and neck massage, lots and lots of really drippy lotion. A warm but rough terrycloth towel wipes it all off. Ouch again.

Then, it’s time for the “renewal” mask, which takes a few moments to prepare. It is applied, covered in gauze strips, and left to fester while I endure a hand massage. Once again, lots and lots of really drippy lotion. The steam is shut off and I hear the birds chirping sweetly. I begin to think I might actually start to relax when BANG. The metal arm of treatment table falls to the tiled floor. My attendant feels badly about this. 

The renewal mask is removed, fast again, and before I realize that the entire procedure is over, my attendant asks me how I liked it. “Liked what?” I ask. “The facial,” she says. “Is it over?” I ask. “You’re all set,” she tells me. I go to put on my robe and I realize that my entire stinging face, neck, arms and hands are literally dripping with lotion. Ick.

Back at the front desk, I learn that this facial (a $140 value) has been comped by the hotel management, surely in hopes of a favorable review. Journalistic integrity tells me to pre-empt the comp, because I know what I’m going to write, and don’t want to feel compromised. They will not allow it, so I tip my attendant with a greasy twenty procured from my black patent handbag, now covered in fingerprints. I hold up my parking ticket but the desk clerk tells me they don’t validate. Fine. How much could it be? I’ve only been here for about an hour and ten minutes.

How much could it be?  It COULDN’T be thirty five bucks, the maximum daily rate. And yet, it IS thirty five bucks.

As my car emerges into the sunlight, blinding my stinging eyes, there is only one call to make now, because misery loves company. My editor, she’s gonna hear about this.