The horror, the pain...the facial

I write today of a story containing much woe and debilitating pain, a tale that will make you cringe as you read - it is also probably the most bourgeois complaint you will ever see on this blog.

It is the tale of the facial I received last Friday.

And perverts, let's get it straight from the get-go - it was a facial you get at a spa, not something that happens when 8 men profess their love to a woman in one of your XXX films.

But to be honest, after I stumbled home from the spa on Friday evening, I think I would have rather been on the receiving end of a bukkake than endured the assault on my face the facialist inflicted.

Early last week, I was looking at my face and running my fingertips along the t-zone - it was like a braille board, with dozens of tiny bumps festering under the skin. A summer of sweaty beach-going, camping, and blase skin care had left me with a face akin to the Yellowstone Caldera - about to blow at any minute with very, very bad results. Since I can't afford a dermatologist, a facial was in order.

I had never had a professional facial before, so I didn't know what was in store for me. I assumed that it would be a relaxing experience; the facialist would cleanse my face, rub some St. Ides scrub into my skin, and soothingly work out any clogs she came across (which would be many). My expectations were purported by clips I see on reality tv, like when the girls of The Hills, or Kate from John & Kate Plus 8, retreat to the spa for the ultimate in calm and rejuvention. I fully expected to come out of my facial with a new-found outlook on life.

It all started out fine enough. My facialist was eastern-European, which seemed totally appropriate, and after I told her it was my first time, she reassured me at every step. I undressed my torso and took off my shoes, laid on the spa bed, and allowed my body to de-tense as the facialist kneaded my shoulders and neck, and rubbed various ointments into my face. A sitar played from the speakers; the room was ensconced in low but warm lantern-light. This is nice, I thought, practically asleep. Why didn't I do this sooner? So what if it's an indulgence, I deserve an indulgence every now and then, don't feel guilty, just enjoy it, even if you COULD have given the money you're spending on this to charity, sshhh, sshhh, goddamnit would you just kick-back for once? Yes, this is how my mind works when I'm relaxed.

Just as I was about to drift-off into some warm, fuzzy nap state, my facialist said, "Ok, now ve vill begin vee ex-track-shun."

I didn't really respond, so she added, "Vis not so much fun."

"O-ohhh?" I was up, no longer lulled by the calming sensations of the room. Not fun? Like, when you're trapped in a boring college course not fun?

She placed a blindfold over my eyes. "How do you like ven you ex-track your blemishes at home?"

"Um, it's ok, I mean, I don't like it." I thought she was asking if I got my jollies by squeezing pus-filled whiteheads in front of my bathroom mirror. Indeed I do, but I didn't want her to think I was a freak.

"Vell, imagine vaht it feel like ven someone else do ex-track-shun."

Wait, what was going on? Why did she put a blindfold on me? The movie Hostel popped into my head.

"But don't vorry," she continued, as if there was an overhead projector connected to my brain that was displaying my fearful thoughts. "I use a needle to get out all vee hard stuff, and your face vill be smooth and beautiful."

A NEEDLE? But it was too late - the ex-track-shun had commenced.

She began with the nose, an uber-difficult place to push out blackheads if there ever was one. I tried not to squirm as she plied the cartilage, working the skin over the ridge of my nose, nearly breaking the fragile bone. At least she is starting with the nose, I thought. The nose is the most painful and frustrating area to pop zits - it should all be easy-peasy from here.

But I was wrong...I was so wrong. Imagine me saying that is a desperate, cracked whisper. I was so wrong. She moved to my problem area, my chin, and that bitch took the soft skin between her fingertips, gripped it like a vice, and squeezed that shit with all the mercy of Mussolini. Every muscle in my body tightened; the veins in my neck must have protruded two inches from the skin. Bullets of sweat sprang from my pits, and I'm not just saying this - I could literally feel pools of sweat cascade from my underarms. This was some serious pain.

And it only continued. With each new extraction, I prayed she would stop. My hands balled into fists and my toes curled like cheetos; my back had become a veritable swamp, since all the pain being inflicted on me had put my sweat glands into overdrive. Sure I was used to the brief sting of popping a zit, but the thing here was that she was extracting from bumps deep under the skin; many layers of epidermis had to be ripped open in order to deplete these potential blemishes. At one point she even said, "Your skin is so tight! Make for very difficult ex-track-shun."

Of course - only I would be someone with tight - yet clogged - pores.

Every millimeter of my face was pinched, and some areas had the pleasure of getting poked by her tiny needle. I think I now know what it feels like to receive Botox. It was so relentless, no time to breathe or recoup, just pain, grit grit git, GAH PAIN, grit grit grit, PAIIIIIIIN. People, I am not one easily provoked by the ache of the physical. I have always handled it well, and though I didn't scream out or tell her to stop at any time during our session, I have to say this was one of the most painful physical experiences of my life. Not the worst, but probably in my top five.

Throughout the facial, she kept talking to me. No, not idly chatting, but trying to engage me in conversation. She wanted to know about chemical peels I had had in the past and if they helped me or not because, wouldn't you know it? SHE had just taken a class on chemical peels and she wanted the perspective from someone who had actually had one... all this while she was facilitating fiery explosions from my face. I tried to be cordial, but all I could think was, bitch, shut-up! I really need to go to my happy place right now, and you are preventing that from happening.

And you know what made the whole thing even worse? I was having some stomach problems during the facial (translation: I had gas), and it was near impossible to not let one fly while I was writhing and gritting my teeth. The sheer fact that I did not A) cry like a baby or B) fart through it all puts me on the level of Superman.

Though it felt like a century, it was probably all done in 15 minutes. She applied a salve to my face then left the room as I reeled from the annihilation I'd just endured. Was it really over? Or was she about to return with a two-foot syringe in her hand and announce, "Oh you thought it vas OVER? You silly, silly American!"

But she didn't return for another 10 minutes or so, and when she finally did, she instructed me to get dressed. Ugh, gladly! I launched myself off the spa bed, got dressed, then spotted the wall mirror. I looked, but due to the low-lighting, I couldn't see the damage. Since my head felt like a hot, throbbing goiter, I knew it couldn't look good.

The walk home was hazy and a bit fevered; every inch of my face was prickly. I was happy for the darkness, since I didn't want passer-bys to be frightened by my boiling-red mug.

It is now a couple days later, and my face looks WORSE THAN EVER. It is dry and scabby. But the facialist did tell me it would look bad for a few days...le sigh.

So people, I tell you this story today so that the truth is known about facials - they are not enjoyable. They are not relaxing. They are, in fact, meant for masochists who enjoy the company of Easter-European broads. But as the old adage goes, no pain, no gain. It has yet to be shown if I gained the desired result, though - if my face turns out like the bottom of a newborn babe, then maybe I will visit my dominatrix-like facialist again in a few months. But I will do so after smoking two joints and imbibing a Volume.