In my typical New York fashion, I could not have been more stressed on my way to “relax.” I rushed in to the place, an action that is frowned upon in such an urban oasis.
After catching my breath, I made my way to the ladies locker room where I was instructed by a female page to choose a locker, disrobe and then, well, robe. In my plush wrap and spa-issued blue flip-flops I moved to the waiting room. After helping myself to a glass of cucumber water (who knew?), I flipped through the latest Harper’s Bazaar until a woman who introduced herself as Maya greeted me. To break the ice, I made a joke, and as mildly chuckled, I knew I better quit it before I ended up face down in a puddle of mango moisturizer.
“You’re here for the Triple Oxygen Facial, yes?” Maya asked in her thick Russian accent. I nodded. She then led me to a dim room and said, “Remove robe, climb under sheet, I return shortly.”
When she returned, she sat at the top of the table, covered my eyes with a warm washcloth and stuck a light brighter than the sun directly towards my face.
Next I unwittingly admitted to committing what must be the cardinal sin of face maintenance. When asked what I use on my face, I replied, “Body lotion or Vaseline.” After she recovered from that answer, she went on to tell me “Your face, like sponge.”
From there, what happened over the next hour and a half was an exercise in trust I cannot understand people routinely pay for. As she scrubbed, buffed, glossed, examined and criticized, I tried not to grimace. I mean, of all people, she’d probably catch me.
I left the spa looking like a glossy, freshly plucked chicken. Which is a look that, in New York, no one even noticed.
- Marieke
