Getting older means trying to find that fountain of youth. Being pampered is also relaxing. I decided to try an oxygen facial at a local spa. You know those spas are like grocery stores: you go in there for one thing and come out with something else. The end result was relaxation and a beautiful glow. But some parts of the process were a little disturbing, and of course, the writer in me had to share this experience creatively. 🙂
Oxygen Facials–The Iron Mask of Impurities
You and your Shar Pei puppy look like twin sisters- you in your red gingham scarf covering a perceptible grey patch- forcing your pooch to play dress up.
But her wrinkles make her adorable; yours have transformed you into a sun-kissed devil who wears knock-off Prada.
“40 is the new 20,” the mantra set on repeat throughout the media’s soundtrack, seems to apply to men who drink from the fountain of youth that drapes them like of arm candy.
There is hope for you.
The oxygen facial has been touted as the old-timey tonic to bring vitality back to your skin. You enter the day spa, and the owner instructs you to remove your shoes before passing through the beaded curtain. She gives you a cap to tuck the strands of your hair inside. You feel like you are being prepped for surgery. The green scrubs are the only attire missing from the mask the esthetician now hooks over her ears.
The golden Buddhist statues sitting in the corner of her workstation hum in tune with the tenor voices streaming through the speakers. You crane your neck toward the door and wait for cloaked monks to come in and offer a last rite for your aging flesh.
The cycle of restoration begins.
The esthetician works the cleanser into your skin and tones it with an astringent. Your hypodermis cries out in ecstasy like you probably would when neglected places finally receive the slightest touch.
As she allows part of the treatment to set on your face, the esthetician massages your hands, neck, and shoulders. Her touch elicits so many snores from you that, along with the statues, the room turns into an animal farm.
Next she wields the miniature wand of oxygen across your face. It sucks the impurities out of your skin. Judging by the mounds of dirt that you have scrubbed and slept on in the name of beauty, you waywardly daydream about cobbling together a suitably at-home treatment. Maybe the stunted fingers of your toddler could draw out the toxins using the nozzle of your vacuum cleaner.
The last steps of the process will aid in the purification process. The esthetician lays a silver mesh net over your face. You feel like the woman with the iron mask. Your crime: You desire to have the alabaster smooth skin of the True Blood vamps without being bled dry by life’s pathogens.
Moisturized and replenished, the process is complete.