As the masques worked their magic, a humidifier wafted warm, dewy air over me. The facialist gave a mild massage to my hands and feet. It didn't do much to relieve tension, but it was fairly pleasant. Finally, one more round with a hot towel. Frankly, that was my favorite part.

The most noticeable effect of the masque was to make my face very shiny. In fact, the shininess was a little disturbing to me. My skin felt soft, but not really more so than with an everyday store-bought moisturizer. Looking at my watch, I was surprised to see that the treatment had lasted a brisk 40 minutes. The shiny softness lasted maybe five or six hours and then was gone. I was left thinking this was a pleasant experience, but not one that gave me a whole lot of bang for my buck.

Lorie, however, looked absolutely fantastic. Her skin was dewy-soft and glowed like a movie star. I can see how women get addicted to the facial lifestyle if they see results like that. Maybe, I thought, I'd just had the wrong sort of treatment. Maybe I needed a different string of adjectives to bring out my best. So I decided perhaps it was time to take that flying leap off the diving board after all.

Time to Face the Music
Less than a week after the baby facial, I booked the everything-and-the-kitchen-sink facial at a different day spa. This time I was tagging along with Lolita and Ruth. Now, if facials are a lifestyle, then there are many different interpretations of it. The tone of this place could not have been more different from the first. Full lighting bounced off plain chairs. I was given a strange terrycloth elastic tube top contraption imported from 1982 to put on. It was a blandly distasteful color that might charitably be called “oatmeal.”

The questionnaire was much more detailed this time around. In addition to the interest in my skin, it asked about my temperament and sleeping patterns as well. Do I sleep soundly at night, or do I toss and turn? Am I quick to anger? I mean, what kind of ridiculous question is that?!

The facialist's room had the enticing atmosphere of a doctor's office, complete with examination table. The facialist was a middle-aged woman with an unmistakable Slavic accent. Her skin was perfect and she had a warm if businesslike demeanor. My consultation began with her entreating me to soak my feet in a solution of warm water and sea salt. She then asked me a straight-forward question. “So, why facial?”

Well, um, my friends were coming in today and I just decided to tag along for a treat.

“No, no, no, no. Why facial?”

Oh, well... I'm, uh, I'm getting older and, you know, I've started noticing some little lines here and there.

Pause.

And, um, I think sometimes my skin looks a little tired...

“There has not been a product yet that can substitute for sleep.”

Right. Of course.

“One thing for facial it's, you cannot change the damage that has been done already.”

OK.

“So it's not magic.”

Right.

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