Welllll-come,” a blonde-haired lady says in a haunting voice, like a spider ready to trap the fly.

On one side of the room, water gushes down the side of a stone wall. It suggests pipes have burst from somewhere in the ceiling. But it’s actually a water feature in the spa’s lobby.

“Just a little paperwork,” says the blonde-haired lady as she hands me a form on a clipboard.

I don’t know how you celebrate Mother’s Day, but I’m observing the occasion by treating myself to a facial at this spa with low-lighting and a gushing wall. But first, paperwork.

The form asks many questions, such as: Do you have claustrophobia? Why, I wonder, is this information needed before a facial? Will the facial be given inside a tiny closet? Is it an MRI facial? Another question asks: What is your goal for your skin? I wrote, “To look 25.” What other goal would I have?

After handing in my completed form, a dark-haired lady enters the lobby and calls my name. She introduces herself as JoAnn and escorts me to a dimly-lit room with a heated massage table. She explains she’s my esthetician and reviews my answers on the form. Suddenly she explodes in giggles. “Tee hee, ha, ha, ha, guffaw, guffaw, (knee, slap).” She says amid her chuckling, “You want to look 25, hee, hee, ha.” She notices I’m not joining in with her apparent hilarity. She gets serious and says, “Well (ahem)  we’ll see what we can do.”

Under the blanket on the heated bed, I’m feeling quite relaxed in the warmth of it. JoAnn puts her hands on both sides of my face and presses hard to the point of pain. She uses her fingers as a power drill on both my temples. As I’m about to yelp loudly, she stops. She then wraps my head in a towel and puts something over my eyes. She could have placed cotton balls or cucumber slices or rusty bicycle gears, I don’t know. My vision is gone.

Now that I’m in this vulnerable position, JoAnn explains some difficult news. The introductory price for first-time customers, like me, consists of the regular, ordinary polished facial. For an upcharge of $25, I could have the fabulous anti-aging facial with collagen. She explains how much better for my skin this facial would be for my skin type.

Of course, I don’t want a polished, shiny face. Bring on the collagen.

Besides, I’m treating myself. I had already agreed at the front desk to the upcharge of the hot towel hand massage. I’m beginning to see that treating myself at this spa will set me back financially for some time. Yes, yes, take all that I have. Let me dump my purse out so you can get every last dime, nickel, and slightly-used lip balm.

JoAnn asks, “Are you allergic to pumpkin?”

“Uh, no,” I reply. Suddenly I smell the fragrance of pumpkin pie. A cold wet brush smushes some kind of muddy-like pie mixture on my face.

I’m wondering what else JoAnn has in store for me. Whipped cream? I’m certainly not allergic to that. And oh! Coffee please.

I commence to relax as gauze is laid over my face so the pumpkin can dry and mummify.

JoAnn flips on a humidifier and I inhale steam.

When you’re having a facial and trying to relax with pumpkin hardening on your face, your thoughts meander.… I wonder why the car on the freeway had the vanity license plate B SILLY. The driver looked very serious. I could have crossed my eyes and stuck my tongue out as I passed by….la, la…I feel cold water sprinkles on my pumpkin face….la, la…I wonder if JoAnn cracked my skull with her earlier head crunch? I may need an ambulance…

I feel a hot towel engulfing my hand.

Suddenly, I feel another rain shower with the scent of lemon. Spritz, spritz. Squirt, squirt.

The piped-in flute music goes on and on, intervened only with a pinging strum of two guitar strings. It’s starting to get on my nerves. Hooo  loo, hooo loo, ping, ping. Oh, shut that music off!

The pumpkin mask comes off. The towel wrapped on my head comes off. Bright lights blind me as I open my eyes. JoAnn holds a mirror up for me to see the results. “See how the collagen plumped up your skin?” JoAnn says, adding, “You look 25.”

My skin does look better. Maybe not like 25 years better. But I’m in a better mood. Mainly because she has flipped off the annoying music.

Yes, now that I think on it, it was quite the escape of soothing relaxation, if only for brief pumpkin-scented moments.

Back in the lobby, a new front desk person says, “That will be $99. And how much tip would you like to add?”

I leave realizing an important message to pass on to all mothers. If you want to pamper yourself on Mother’s Day, I recommend roller skating or bowling.

 

 

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