Proof that Not Everyone Belongs at a Spa

For Christmas a couple of years ago, the father of a friend of mine (to protect the innocent, I'm going to call her K) gave her two gift certificates for a local spa. One was for her, and the other was for a friend of her choice. You guessed it - I got to be that friend. Neither of us had ever been to a spa, and we quite arguably are not “spa people,” so we were excited to give it a go.

Armed with our certificates, we marched into the rather unremarkable (at least from the outside) building. Immediately, my olfactory senses exploded. I mean, they practically blew right out of my head. I was choking on a disgusting blend of odors – hair products, wax, nail polish and remover, dyes, lotions, and God only knows what else. We settled into the waiting room, and as my lungs tried to filter the swirling toxins (those poor employees!), I thought about what lay ahead.

Here’s what I pictured: my friend and I, lounging side-by-side in wooden recliners, our hair up in towels, green mud masks on our faces, laughing and talking and sipping exotic juices while we exfoliated or effervesced or whatever the hell it was that we were supposed to do in a spa.

Here’s what I wasn’t prepared for: first, we were separated. I was led into a small, private room and told to undress down to my undies (what?). I was handed a teeny smock-type thing (was this the hospital?). That smock really disarmed me – I mean, I was only getting a facial. I wasn’t sure how wearing my own shirt would hinder them from smearing cocoa butter on my face. But, always the agreeable customer, I turned to undress. That’s when I saw the bed.