Preface: I consider myself a reasonably creative person. But I feel it necessary to state that I did not exaggerate or make up any portion of the following story.
So I had quite the experience today; special thanks to Couptopia for this.
Couptopia is basically a lesser known version of Groupon, for those who are not familiar.
Anyway, back in November, Couptopia published one of their specials. The special was for a 60 minute facial at a salon/spa in Manchester. The price was $20.
As one who appreciates good deals, and anything spa-like, I purchased said special. I was not familiar with the spa, but figured it couldn’t be that bad. It’s not like this is in a Bangledesh slum; it’s Manchester. And I’ve never really had a bad facial, so why not give it a try?
Well, today was my appointment to redeem the certificate. I was instantly hesitant pulling into the parking lot. The spa was in a small strip mall sandwiched between a uniform store and a seedy-looking Mexican restaurant.
I open the door to the salon and read signs instructing clients to head over the the reception desk. I walk down a long, dimly-lit hallway, to be greeted by a 6’5 cross-dresser/transsexual wearing tall black boots, jeggings, a ruffly skirt over said jeggings and a pink shirt that revealed a sizable portion of his hairy midriff. He also wore terribly-applied make-up (over minor facial stubble, mind you) and a blonde wig.
Now, listen. I understand what you may be thinking about me. I’m sure you’re thinking that I am intolerant. I assure you that I am not. I may joke a lot about how much I hate people, but I hate people equally. The few people I don’t hate are of a vast assortment of races, religions, sexual preferences, financial backgrounds, etc. I feel the need to be clear here.
But I have never seen anything like this in real life. It was truly the worst cross-dressing attempt I have ever seen. Ever. It was as if a tall version of my couldn’t-be-more-manly husband lost a bet and had to dress like a girl for Halloween.
Now, you know when you see something unusual/shocking/unordinary and you need a few seconds for your brain to process it? Well, that happened here. As (s)he proceeded greet me and ask me (in a very manly voice, by the way) if he could help me. I feel absolutely beyond terrible for doing this, but my brain needed those few seconds to…you know…PROCESS WHAT I WAS SEEING.
So, I stood there. And stared. It was for at least 15-20 seconds. I know it was rude. But I truly had no other choice in the matter. It wasn’t a voluntary reaction.
After I came to my senses, I replied that yes, (s)he could indeed help me, as I have a facial scheduled with Cris. (S)he asked me to take a seat and told me she would be out in a few minutes. As I perused through an old copy of People, (s)he (I’m not writing that to be rude, I don’t know how to refer to transgender/cross-dressers and this is the best way I know to do it), began to touch up said make-up and then walked over to his/her client to check her hair as the color was processing.
Cris then comes out and asks me to follow her. She leads me to a really, really, really dark room and tells me to undress to my “comfort level” and that she will be right back.
She knocks on the door not even 30 seconds later and asks if I’m ready. Apparently I am Superman in a telephone booth.
I feel the need to explain how a facial works. If you’re anything like my husband, who has never enjoyed a facial, you are unfamiliar with the process. Long-short of it, it’s a somewhat “delicate” procedure. It’s meant to be relaxing, soothing, calming. It involves slow, circular, two-finger motions when masks are applied to the face, usually a face/neck/shoulders/arms/hands massage lasting around 10-15 minutes, soothing music. You get the picture.
Mind out of the gutter, gentlemen.
The facial process also generally involves a minor procedure called extraction, where the esthetician uses a tool to extract all of the dirt out of your pores. This eliminates the majority of any blackheads on your face.
Anyway, she proceeds to take the entirety of her two hands, cover them in mask gunk, and literally slaps it onto my face. There was nothing relaxing, soothing and/or calming about it. She does this with every new mask/layer. It was sheer chaos–I actually can’t think of a better term for it. It was as if she was Jackson Pollock, violently tossing paint onto a canvas.
That canvas happened to be my face.
In the middle of one of her “applications,” I began to chuckle. And then laugh. Hard. Because I just KNEW I HAD to be on “Candid Camera.” I mean, there was just no way this was real. She started chuckling a little, too–just because I was laughing–and proceeded to ask me why I was laughing so hard. I just told her that a friend had told me a funny story earlier today and it just popped into my head again.
She then proceeds to give me a pathetic neck massage that lasted no more than a minute and a half. Cris then slathered another mask onto my face and said she had a waxing to do on another client and that she would be back in 20 or 25 minutes.
Masks don’t generally need to lay on your face during a facial for that long. It’s 5-7 minutes, tops.
So she leaves the room and, no lie, I hop off the table and start looking around the room for a video camera. There was a couple of closets in the room so I also had a feeling Monty Hall or some other old game show host would jump out of it and I’d get a thousand dollars for being such a good sport and putting up with this ridiculousness.
She comes back after 20 minutes or so (probably after waxing some old lady’s bikini region) and takes my mask off, asks me how I feel, and tells me we are done.
Now, normally, if I REALLY don’t like a service or a product I received, I will generally politely say something. But this was just pure entertainment, and it was already paid for, so I handed her a small tip and went on my merry way. I get into my car, only to realize she didn’t even take off all of the mask. Some of it was still sticking to my face.
Yes, this really happened to me today.
And this is why I blog. Because this type of stuff happens to me on a regular basis, and everyone else needs to know about it. Because it’s funny.