I just wanted to say thanks to those of you who gave me words of encouragement, flattery, advice and humor over the last few days. It's so sweet of you. And some of you just crack my shit up.
A little aftermath:
I talked Paul down from printing out my blog and going to the spa's management office with it. I'm not looking for any kind of compensation from them as I don't intend to go back there. I also do not want a refund. As far as I'm concerned, I requested a service and they performed it. They should be paid. I'm not obligated to tip, so I didn't. Had the experience been more positive, I definitely would have.
While the texture of my face felt smoother yesterday, visually, I saw no difference. In fact, I have a few new zits and some of my facial scarring seems more pronounced now. My skin is roughly back to its regular texture today. The long and short of it is that I tried getting a facial and didn't like it. I'm sure I can find lots of other uses of my time and money. I think I'll live just fine without another one.
My eyebrows actually look worse. I couldn't tell that they were uneven before. I can definitely tell now. Luckily, my bangs will most likely cover them until they grow back to normal. That woman was out of her skull.
I don't believe Niculina is actually Russian. I'm not apologizing for my Russian slurs though, because I think I was funny. My mean and sarcastic humor is usually one of the few things that make me feel better when I'm having a bad experience. I looked up her credentials on the spa's website and it seems that she was educated at the Medical Institution of Bucharest, leading me to believe that she's Romanian. *Insert your own "Romanian women are really hairy joke here.* I'm now convinced that the Medical Institution of Bucharest is one of the following:
1. A mental institution in which patients experience occupational therapy by popping each others' zits and putting the lotion in the basket and all that.
2. Some sort of equivalent to the University of Phoenix or DeVry Institute.
Also, according to the website, one of Niculina's specialties is Brazilian bikini waxing. If she was that harsh about my face, I shudder to think about what she'd say about my nether region. Although, at least I really do shave that.
Someone else suggested that the whole eyebrow thing was a sales ploy to get me to purchase the additional service of a wax. It's possible. But given her reluctance to do it, I kind of lean towards that not being true. I would totally fall for something like that, though. I'm a marketing person's wet dream, after all. If that was her intention, it totally backfired. Not only did she not get her tip, she totally lost future business.
Anyway, it's not my fault that bitch was too fat to be a gymnast. Nadia Comaneci really shouldn't be taking the fact that she was already kicked off Celebrity Apprentice out on me.
Ok. I'll let it go now. Thanks again for being such wonderful people! You all have very special places in my grinchy little heart.
Mwah!
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
I wish I could tie you up in my shoes, make you feel unpretty, too
I really hesitate to write what I'm about to write. First, I don't want anyone to think that I'm fishing for compliments. I assure you I am not. Second, this is going to be painfully embarrassing and humiliating to share. But I've made new year's resolutions to open up more and also to write more. And since I feel like a giant raw nerve at the moment, I can't really think of a more appropriate circumstance.
I had my first facial today. No, you sick perverts, it wasn't *that* kind of facial. Although, I think I may have preferred that. It probably would have been much less demeaning.
My sweet and wonderful husband gave me an extremely generous gift card for the Bell Tower Salon and Medi-Spa as an MBA graduation gift. Being a bit on the shy side when it comes to people touching and fussing over me, it took me some time to bring myself to make appointments to use the card. Paul and I enjoyed their Couple's Escape package a few weeks ago. I still had some money left on the gift card and decided to use it towards a facial since I had never had one. A friend of mine suggested a specific person to request for the facial, but unfortunately that person was unavailable due to maternity leave. Since I didn't know of anyone else who worked there, it really didn't matter to me who did it.
My appointment was scheduled for Saturday, January 5th. I was quite sleep deprived last week due to the New Year's Eve activities and having to take my sister back to the airport at an ungodly hour on Thursday. I would have loved to stay in bed all day, but I was a trooper and drove to the spa for my appointment thinking that it would be soothing and relaxing anyway.
When I arrived, I discovered that my appointment had been cancelled due to a "scheduling error." I was never notified of this cancellation. But I kept my cool, smiled, shrugged and said it wasn't a really big deal. I'd be happy to come back. This gave me the chance to get my drivers license photo taken. Who knew that experience would actually make me feel more attractive than a day at the spa?
I returned tonight for my rescheduled appointment with Niculina. She had just entered the waiting room as I was glancing at my watch, noticing that she was roughly 10 minutes tardy for our appointment. Again, I didn't say a word and shrugged it off. What was I doing anyway?
She was a cold tempered woman of eastern European descent. To say she was unfriendly would be like saying that oompa loompas tend to be a little on the short side. As instructed, I removed my shirt and necklace and took my place on the table, covering myself with a sheet and blanket. She asked me a few questions about what I use on my face, but really didn't seem to listen or really be interested in what I was saying. My appointment was for an acne facial, which I thought I would need since the only time my face has ever been free of zits was back when I was in high school and on birth control pills. After my initial cleanse, she told me that my pores were severely clogged and that I should do a purifying facial instead. Whatever. It really didn't make a difference to me and I trusted her expertise. She also said she would take care of "the white ones" on my face, I guess referring to the breakouts that I was there to solve in the first place. She then put my face under some harsh lights to get a better look.
If you're skimming, here's where it gets nasty.
This bitch, in her thick as Natasha Fatale accent said with an equally thick tone of disgust, "You need to grow your eyebrows out and redo them. They are NOT supposed to look that way." Excuse me? God? Is that you? I can't imagine anyone else being in any other sort of position to tell another human being what the fuck their face is "supposed" to look like. She went on, "Do you shave them?" Um, no. I told her that I usually have them done every few weeks when I get my hair cut. She reiterated, in case I missed her horrible criticism of my face the first time, "They shouldn't be like this. Grow them out and come back. I will fix them for you." My! How fucking gracious of you, bitch! How will I make it through the next few weeks without your precious gift?!?
Of course, this is what I say right now. At the time, I panicked. I have a fancy shmancy work shindig on Saturday. "Is there anything you can do now to fix them temporarily?" She sighed, as if I had asked her bleed a vodka tonic for me, "Well, you really should grow them out. They are uneven here and short there..." I told her that I had something going on for Saturday night and she eased, "Well, I can see what I can do. Maybe." I guess this was going to be a really big challenge for her.
As if my eyebrows weren't a crisis enough for this woman, she put on rubber gloves and preceded to squeeze and pop every microscopic bump that was on my face. She was popping the wrinkles in my fucking forehead. And it hurt! Badly! She kept squeezing my nose and I struggled to breathe through my unusually small nostrils (a feature that I have because I never picked my nose as a child). Between the physical pain and the emotional sting, I began to cry when she had completed the first half of my face. "Are you ok?" She asked. I couldn't respond. She asked again. With a cracked voice, I told her I was fine. "I will stop if you do not want me to continue," she said sounding exactly like Uncle Junior's one legged housekeeper. Well, what the fuck am I supposed to say? "Please stop and only do half of my face so that I'm uneven and look like Juliet Lewis's character in The Other Sister after her make over?" I told her to continue. "If only you could see what I am doing right now." Great. That made me feel even better. Just call me Chrissy Pus Face.
Then she asked for my hand. She took my finger and thumb, placing a tiny ball of pus between them, much like you would feel if you ever popped a zit. "This is what I am removing from your face." Great. Now my face makes me want to puke. I can only imagine what the rest of the world thinks. I continued to cry.
"How often do you get facial?" Nureyev in a skirt asked. When I told her this was my first one, she shrugged and nodded as if I was less than human.
"You want me to fix your eyebrows, but the wax is also going to hurt," she warned. This really pissed me off. I told her earlier that I usually did wax my eyebrows and here she was speaking to me as if I had never done it before. I reminded her of this. I continued to cry. "I just feel really ugly," I said. She then proceeded to tell me that this was nothing personal (no shit, bitch. I'm an awesome person...I just look like Quasimodo, apparently) and that she was giving me her professional opinion. She said that there was nothing wrong with my skin and that after being in this line of work for 20 plus years she has seen just about everything. You would think that after 20 plus years of experience, she would have a better bedside manner. But who am I to expect service with a smile? I'm just another ugly face.
And did you notice how she didn't tell me that I *wasn't* ugly?
She handed me a mirror so that she could show me exactly what was wrong with my face, but I told her that I felt so ugly after the way she spoke to me that I really couldn't even stand to look at myself. When she finally did wax my brows, it not only hurt less than the squeezing and popping of my crater face, but it also hurt less than when my hairdresser does it.
She continued with the facial, bringing out a buffering machine, "I am about to bring out machine. I must ask you at this time if you are pregnant." I'm sure she has to ask this of everyone, but while we're at it, why not just remind me that I'm fat, too?
I told her that I'm not pregnant. She buffed my face. When she finished, I asked why the machine could not be used on pregnant women. "They told us we are not to use the machine on pregnant women." Ooooookay. But why? I pressed further, but she just repeated herself. So I guess the reason is that she is just following orders, much like the Nazis did when they killed her people. What a shame that they missed her lineage...
I kept these thoughts to myself for the rest of the time, however. She had chemicals and sharp objects. And I'm fairly certain that a person of her position and intelligence might not be aware that the Cold War is over. So I remained uncharacteristically polite. When she offered me a glass of water, I responded with a meek and defeated, "Yes, please." She gave me some samples and reiterated that she was not trying to demean me, rather just give me her professional opinion. She pulled a hand held mirror out of a drawer and asked if I would like to look at how much better I look now that she fixed my face. I declined. She left the room so I could get dressed and then walked me to the counter as if I would storm out without paying.
When the sweet and perky blond behind the reception desk asked me how everything was I responded with an "Okay."
"Just ok?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything we can -"
"No," I said firmly, but not meanly. I really have no desire to ever return to that place, regardless of how great my other experiences were there and especially since they just opened a medi-spa within walking distance of my house. I paid my bill but didn't tip. The money that I planned to use for the tip will be going towards years' worth of therapy. I walked out with my head down and hair in my face while everyone behind the counter stared at me like I was as ugly of a circus freak as I felt.
When you are in a business like a medi-spa, you are selling the experience. People want to walk out of there with their heads held high, feeling stunning and beautiful. I couldn't feel anything further from that right now. And I can't stop crying. I know this whole thing sounds so annoyingly self absorbed and overly sensitive. And clearly most of you look at me on a regular basis so you've been well aware of my hideousness for so long that I'm sure what she told me is no surprise to any of you. I've never felt like an attractive person in the first place, but at least I've felt fairly confident over the last few years. Now all of that is shattered as well.
I had my first facial today. No, you sick perverts, it wasn't *that* kind of facial. Although, I think I may have preferred that. It probably would have been much less demeaning.
My sweet and wonderful husband gave me an extremely generous gift card for the Bell Tower Salon and Medi-Spa as an MBA graduation gift. Being a bit on the shy side when it comes to people touching and fussing over me, it took me some time to bring myself to make appointments to use the card. Paul and I enjoyed their Couple's Escape package a few weeks ago. I still had some money left on the gift card and decided to use it towards a facial since I had never had one. A friend of mine suggested a specific person to request for the facial, but unfortunately that person was unavailable due to maternity leave. Since I didn't know of anyone else who worked there, it really didn't matter to me who did it.
My appointment was scheduled for Saturday, January 5th. I was quite sleep deprived last week due to the New Year's Eve activities and having to take my sister back to the airport at an ungodly hour on Thursday. I would have loved to stay in bed all day, but I was a trooper and drove to the spa for my appointment thinking that it would be soothing and relaxing anyway.
When I arrived, I discovered that my appointment had been cancelled due to a "scheduling error." I was never notified of this cancellation. But I kept my cool, smiled, shrugged and said it wasn't a really big deal. I'd be happy to come back. This gave me the chance to get my drivers license photo taken. Who knew that experience would actually make me feel more attractive than a day at the spa?
I returned tonight for my rescheduled appointment with Niculina. She had just entered the waiting room as I was glancing at my watch, noticing that she was roughly 10 minutes tardy for our appointment. Again, I didn't say a word and shrugged it off. What was I doing anyway?
She was a cold tempered woman of eastern European descent. To say she was unfriendly would be like saying that oompa loompas tend to be a little on the short side. As instructed, I removed my shirt and necklace and took my place on the table, covering myself with a sheet and blanket. She asked me a few questions about what I use on my face, but really didn't seem to listen or really be interested in what I was saying. My appointment was for an acne facial, which I thought I would need since the only time my face has ever been free of zits was back when I was in high school and on birth control pills. After my initial cleanse, she told me that my pores were severely clogged and that I should do a purifying facial instead. Whatever. It really didn't make a difference to me and I trusted her expertise. She also said she would take care of "the white ones" on my face, I guess referring to the breakouts that I was there to solve in the first place. She then put my face under some harsh lights to get a better look.
If you're skimming, here's where it gets nasty.
This bitch, in her thick as Natasha Fatale accent said with an equally thick tone of disgust, "You need to grow your eyebrows out and redo them. They are NOT supposed to look that way." Excuse me? God? Is that you? I can't imagine anyone else being in any other sort of position to tell another human being what the fuck their face is "supposed" to look like. She went on, "Do you shave them?" Um, no. I told her that I usually have them done every few weeks when I get my hair cut. She reiterated, in case I missed her horrible criticism of my face the first time, "They shouldn't be like this. Grow them out and come back. I will fix them for you." My! How fucking gracious of you, bitch! How will I make it through the next few weeks without your precious gift?!?
Of course, this is what I say right now. At the time, I panicked. I have a fancy shmancy work shindig on Saturday. "Is there anything you can do now to fix them temporarily?" She sighed, as if I had asked her bleed a vodka tonic for me, "Well, you really should grow them out. They are uneven here and short there..." I told her that I had something going on for Saturday night and she eased, "Well, I can see what I can do. Maybe." I guess this was going to be a really big challenge for her.
As if my eyebrows weren't a crisis enough for this woman, she put on rubber gloves and preceded to squeeze and pop every microscopic bump that was on my face. She was popping the wrinkles in my fucking forehead. And it hurt! Badly! She kept squeezing my nose and I struggled to breathe through my unusually small nostrils (a feature that I have because I never picked my nose as a child). Between the physical pain and the emotional sting, I began to cry when she had completed the first half of my face. "Are you ok?" She asked. I couldn't respond. She asked again. With a cracked voice, I told her I was fine. "I will stop if you do not want me to continue," she said sounding exactly like Uncle Junior's one legged housekeeper. Well, what the fuck am I supposed to say? "Please stop and only do half of my face so that I'm uneven and look like Juliet Lewis's character in The Other Sister after her make over?" I told her to continue. "If only you could see what I am doing right now." Great. That made me feel even better. Just call me Chrissy Pus Face.
Then she asked for my hand. She took my finger and thumb, placing a tiny ball of pus between them, much like you would feel if you ever popped a zit. "This is what I am removing from your face." Great. Now my face makes me want to puke. I can only imagine what the rest of the world thinks. I continued to cry.
"How often do you get facial?" Nureyev in a skirt asked. When I told her this was my first one, she shrugged and nodded as if I was less than human.
"You want me to fix your eyebrows, but the wax is also going to hurt," she warned. This really pissed me off. I told her earlier that I usually did wax my eyebrows and here she was speaking to me as if I had never done it before. I reminded her of this. I continued to cry. "I just feel really ugly," I said. She then proceeded to tell me that this was nothing personal (no shit, bitch. I'm an awesome person...I just look like Quasimodo, apparently) and that she was giving me her professional opinion. She said that there was nothing wrong with my skin and that after being in this line of work for 20 plus years she has seen just about everything. You would think that after 20 plus years of experience, she would have a better bedside manner. But who am I to expect service with a smile? I'm just another ugly face.
And did you notice how she didn't tell me that I *wasn't* ugly?
She handed me a mirror so that she could show me exactly what was wrong with my face, but I told her that I felt so ugly after the way she spoke to me that I really couldn't even stand to look at myself. When she finally did wax my brows, it not only hurt less than the squeezing and popping of my crater face, but it also hurt less than when my hairdresser does it.
She continued with the facial, bringing out a buffering machine, "I am about to bring out machine. I must ask you at this time if you are pregnant." I'm sure she has to ask this of everyone, but while we're at it, why not just remind me that I'm fat, too?
I told her that I'm not pregnant. She buffed my face. When she finished, I asked why the machine could not be used on pregnant women. "They told us we are not to use the machine on pregnant women." Ooooookay. But why? I pressed further, but she just repeated herself. So I guess the reason is that she is just following orders, much like the Nazis did when they killed her people. What a shame that they missed her lineage...
I kept these thoughts to myself for the rest of the time, however. She had chemicals and sharp objects. And I'm fairly certain that a person of her position and intelligence might not be aware that the Cold War is over. So I remained uncharacteristically polite. When she offered me a glass of water, I responded with a meek and defeated, "Yes, please." She gave me some samples and reiterated that she was not trying to demean me, rather just give me her professional opinion. She pulled a hand held mirror out of a drawer and asked if I would like to look at how much better I look now that she fixed my face. I declined. She left the room so I could get dressed and then walked me to the counter as if I would storm out without paying.
When the sweet and perky blond behind the reception desk asked me how everything was I responded with an "Okay."
"Just ok?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything we can -"
"No," I said firmly, but not meanly. I really have no desire to ever return to that place, regardless of how great my other experiences were there and especially since they just opened a medi-spa within walking distance of my house. I paid my bill but didn't tip. The money that I planned to use for the tip will be going towards years' worth of therapy. I walked out with my head down and hair in my face while everyone behind the counter stared at me like I was as ugly of a circus freak as I felt.
When you are in a business like a medi-spa, you are selling the experience. People want to walk out of there with their heads held high, feeling stunning and beautiful. I couldn't feel anything further from that right now. And I can't stop crying. I know this whole thing sounds so annoyingly self absorbed and overly sensitive. And clearly most of you look at me on a regular basis so you've been well aware of my hideousness for so long that I'm sure what she told me is no surprise to any of you. I've never felt like an attractive person in the first place, but at least I've felt fairly confident over the last few years. Now all of that is shattered as well.
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