My first facial

Two things that I staunchly dislike are:
1. Being touched.
2. Being in any state of undress in front of others (unless the other is someone with whom sex is imminent).

However, I do like to try and feel purty. So I undertook the feat of scheduling my first facial, and just came back from it.

I had it done at the same place that houses my gym, so I'm aware enough of the facilities, but the brochure made mention of taking a shower or shvitzing in the sauna a good 15 - 20 minutes before your session. This was enough to horrify me. I also made the egregious error of not bringing any shower sandals, so once I hastily disrobed down to my panties and cinched the robe on tight, I had to walk the twenty steps from my locker to the spa area in bare feet.

EwwwwwWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. (Make no doubt, I scrubbed those suckers to pieces when I got home.)

But after I figured out where to go, I found myself in a quaint hallway with soft lighting and soothing decor, and read a magazine for a bit before my esthetician fetched me.

Jeanine looked like a sort of old school hippie chick, friendly enough. She led me into the room, invited me to sit down, and asked me to take off my robe as she left the room. It was all a bit lurid to me, especially since there are spa houses all throughout the city that mask as sex dens housing underaged Asian prostitutes.

Unpleasant.

But once she came in and began, I kind of got the vibe of it, and she was calming and understanding enough that it was my first time.

About ten minutes or so in, she said, "You know what would look cool? If we tinted your eyelashes." Like any fag susceptible to a beauty recommendation, I agreed. At first she thought a shade of brown would do, but then said, "Or ya know what would make them really pop? Blue black!"

Now, I dyed my hair blue-black during my junior year goth phase of high school. Against my highly white skin, it clearly stood out. And I can look back on that time as a lark and a phase, one that shalt not be repeated.

So I nixed the blue black, and she proceeded with the brown. Aside from the slight burning which terrified me enough to think I might go blind (she kindly soothed my panic with a hand massage), we finished the tint, and I took a look.

Okay, now I know that any color you put on will fade with time, and granted when hair is wet it looks darker, but I looked a bit like I had mascara on. I mean, as I left my appointment, looking in the mirror, I felt like some extra in "Cabaret" with my fucking stage make up on.

Nonetheless, she finished massaging oils and creams and forget-me-nots that kind of all just felt like water and lotion to be honest into my skin, explaining what each one was and how each one would improve this or that. I have to tell you, though, that I just couldn't relax and enjoy the massage. I mean, I know that I'm paying this person and this is their job, but I just felt self-conscious, and my body would not surrender to the feeling.

I just can't pay someone to touch me. They have to want to, I guess.

So to summarize, it was an interesting experience, but if I'm going to make any self-improvements, I'd rather go under the knife. If I'm going to have someone touch me, I'd rather it be with a scalpel and laser-precision instruments enacting fabulous results.