Skin Deep

Two facials, compared.

I got my first facial when I was twenty years old. I was going to be in a magazine ad for Noxzema skin cleanser, and the concept was I’d just stepped out of the shower, my face wet and make-up free. The Noxzema people booked the facial for me at a place called Elizabeth Arden Red Door Spa on Fifth Avenue.

I got there at nine a.m. and was told to undress. I was given a plush robe and a hair wrap before settling into an ergonomic recliner. I recall the scent of sandalwood and the piped-in sound of waves lapping upon the shore. I got the full treatment, scrubs and heated towels and infused vitamin mists and soothing oils and unguents. The only unpleasant part was the blackhead extraction, which featured a lot of fingernail pinching, but it was followed by a cooling magical pore-shrinker. When I emerged five hours later, my skin was like porcelain. I remember walking down Fifth Avenue thinking all eyes were on my radiant complexion. I’m sure that wasn’t the case, but that’s how attractive I felt.

Since my daughter is getting married next week I decided to treat myself to a facial at a local spa. I chose the Diamond Glow option, described as “an advanced skin-resurfacing treatment that combines exfoliation, extraction, and infusion of condition-specific serums (acne, hyper pigmentation, vitamin C, and hydration) to improve skin health, function, and appearance. Great for Red Carpet Events.”

I got to the salon at 10 am. While I sat in a chair, the esthetician proceeded to shave my basically invisible facial hair with a straight-edge razor. She then vacuumed me with a mini-suction device, leaving mini-hickeys all over my face and neck. Next, she applied goopy vitamin C serum. I sat, letting it soak in while she complained to me about her stepson. I paid the bill, which came to just shy of $200.00, and was back in my car by 10:28. Since I was instructed to stay out of the sun for the rest of the day, I sat at home peering out at the sunshine, aware of the fresh stubble at the corners of my mouth and the fact I smelled like an open carton of Tropicana.

I hoped for more time and hoopla for the money. I hoped for a better result. My complexion looked mottled, not radiant. I spent the first hour of my in-home confinement deeply disappointed until Charlie caught a whiff of me. I’m guessing it was the vitamin C serum, but he could not, would not, stop licking my face. It was weirdly delightful.

Elizabeth Arden was long ago. It was fancy, and my face looked flawless, but yesterday had nothing to do with perfection. It success lay in a free slathering of love, courtesy of Charlie. I felt- no, I actually was- irresistible.