(no subject)

[katallison]

So this was all my sister-in-law B.'s idea, really. In addition to being a razor-sharp clinical psychologist who has forgotten more about assessment than I will ever know, and routinely testifies in court hearings about dangerous sex offenders, and reads Seneca in her spare time for fun, she is also a total girly-girl, who loves clothes and shoes and make-up, and she thought that since my brother is out of town, she and I should do a Girls' Day Out, and get ourselves all foofed up. She booked us in to a glossy local day spa for a package deal that included (a) massage, (b) facial, (c) pedicure, and (d) makeup application, and though it is not the kind of thing I would ever think of doing for myself, I went along with it, B. being something of a Force of Nature when she has a plan in mind.

Part 1: The Arrival and Readying. We got to the spa about half an hour early, given B.'s hypervigilant anxieties about traffic and parking complexities, and were ushered in and sent downstairs to the locker room, where we got undressed and put on posh robes and hilariously oversized terrycloth slippers, which we could barely walk in. Mineral water was urged upon us, and we were sent to wait in a dimly-lit hallway on a lavishly-becushioned sofa. We chatted for a while about a book about shamanism by some anthropologist that B. read recently, and eventually two staff members in white lab coats showed up; B. was led off to her massage, and I to my facial.

Part 2: The Facial. Oh my god, how fabulous was this. I disrobed and settled myself on a very comfortable table, in a dimly-lit, faintly sage-scented room; the esthetician (I believe that's the term) then came in and wrapped me securely in blankets. She told me in hypnotically soothing tones about the products she'd be using on my visage (I recall that they were of Hungarian origin [whatever] and involved natural fruit extracts [ditto]). That whole aspect was giggle-inducingly reminiscent of the scene in kormantic's wonderful Mr. In-Between where Frannie's practicing her cosmetician spiel on Ray V. ("This is a soothing hot towel. It'll relax you and help ready your skin so we can maximize the effectiveness of the Pore Cream," and Ray could tell she was reciting this spiel from memory. It was her Gerardi's Counter Girl voice.), and bad New Age music was playing in the background. But, oh my god, the facial itself. My face and upper chestal region were rubbed expertly with a gloriously fresh-lemon-scented cleansing something, and then packed in hot towels; then wiped down with another lovely-smelling something, and dabbed with yet a third whatever; I was bathed in a billowing cloud of steam, while my hands were massaged; my pores were examined and dealt with, gently but expertly; there were more hot towels; and then all exposed skin was anointed with a final coating of something that smelled like celestial mangoes.

Finally I was told I could rise and proceed to the massage; I managed to pry myself off the table, and stagger out to the hallway, where I was collected and led off to--

Part 3: The Massage. This was a less perfect experience; the masseuse seemed a bit hurried, and the annoying New Age music was somewhat louder. But still, any massage is a good massage, for someone whose neck/shoulders are as chronically befucked as mine. The knots that permanently reside between my shoulderblades and spine were at least loosened up, and I emitted various embarrassing grunting noises of pleasure at interludes.

When this was finished, I re-donned the robe, and fumbled my way out to--

Part 4: The Pedicure. I had never had a pedicure before in my life--I've never even painted my toenails--so I was looking forward to this experience, and it turned out to be entirely hilarious. I tend to treat my feet rather as the Roman emperors might treat a tedious outlying province, mostly ignoring them but every once in a while lunging in to administer savage correction, in this case by dint of ruthlessly clipping my toenails down to the quick. I had done such a clipping only a few days earlier, and the pedicure person was clearly vexed with me, making little tsking noises and telling me all about how overly-short toenails are an invitation to fungus. I totally did not care; I was recumbent in a marvelous barber-chair-like contraption with the foot not being worked on submerged in a hot bubbling bath, inspecting a palette of potential toenail-polish colors, and only a large glass of champagne could have improved the situation.

And then--the toe separators! I had wondered how one prevented toenail polish from smearing, given the tendency of toes to overlap and rub up against each other, and I discovered that the answer is an amazing foam-rubber gizmo with little cutouts for each toe. The world, it is a large and fabulous place, and I brought my toe separators home with me, to use at future interludes when I need amusement.

I chose a lurid shade of crimson for my polish, which looked pretty hilarious on my little stubby toenails, and you know what, toes themselves are pretty goddamned hilarious if you contemplate them long enough. Once the polish was applied, I kept looking at my feet and chortling.

B. was alongside me in another chair for the pedicure process, and when we were both done, we were sent back to the locker room to get dressed, and headed upstairs for the final step:

Part 5: The Makeup Application. This was done by the same sweet soothing-voiced lady who'd done the facials, and when she got me in the chair, she seemed to attain some sort of psychic connection to my inner being; peering at me, she murmured "You don't usually wear much makeup, do you?"

"None, really," I honestly replied, and she said, "Well, we'll just do a light daytime sort of application," and had at me. A good deal of powder was floofed on, and various things were brushed and pencilled on my eyelids; mascara was wielded freely; then she smeared on an amazing amount of lip glop (I hate having anything on my lips, because stray bits of hair tend to float over and stick to it), and finally she wheeled me around to the mirror. I peered in, and concluded, as always when I have makeup on -- shiny, clownlike, oh dear. But I thanked her, and B. assumed the chair, and just at that moment some friend of the management came in with a totally wonderful bulldog, whom I petted and thumped for a while, and then B. was done as well, and we handed over our credit cards to cover the truly staggering tab, and we were finished.

When I got home, I took another look at my crimson toes, giggled, and then put on some warm socks and my running shoes. I took a final survey of the makeup situation in the mirror (oh my god, so shiny and clownlike), and then lathered up a washcloth and gave the face a good scrub (I'll have to bleach that washcloth, good lord, the amount of cosmetics I had on my face). My pores still look rather better than usual, and my shoulders have not yet resumed the typical staring-at-the-monitor clench.

Verdict: Fun. Not worth the amazing amount of money, but an entertaining way to spend a few hours. And my toes? Are fabulous.