There's a place in Redmond, called Gene Juarez Salon, that does all that stuff. It's close, so it's handy, but they are notorious for having a high turnover rate for their spa staff and so not having their act together.
"Go to Bellevue" my friends said. "It's a newer, nicer facility and they don't have nearly the mess ups that Redmond has."
So I did. My dear husband got me a Mother's Day certificate for the spa, and I scheduled it last month for the Bellevue spa. Well, suffice it to say, they really screwed up my schedule, and I had to miss a big part of the service because of it. "We're so sorry!" they said. And they gave me a gift certificate for a free "envelopment hydration service", which is the one they screwed up.
"See, the irony is, I came here specifically because I was told you guys DIDN'T screw up."
They appreciated the irony, and were sufficiently apologetic.
Cut to today, where I go in for my "total hydration" experience, or whatever the heck it's called. It's a really funky service I've never had before, but I like this sort of thing: They take you into this room, you get naked, though you have "modesty drapes" over your chest and "bikini area"....which begs the following question: Is it still a bikini area if I NEVER wear bikinis? Why don't they just call a crotch a crotch?
So they lay you on this table, which looks like a big box, and you're laying on top of these plastic tarpulin looking sheets. They dim the lights, have you inhale aromatherapy oils, have soft music playing....then they scrub you like crazy with dry body brushes to exfoliate off the dead skin. (ooh tingly!)
Then they (okay, she, there was only one other person in the room) slather you with this super hydrating moisturizer "It has Swiss Goat butter, natural salts, and essential oils!" she said. Swiss Goat Butter? HA HA HA. I love spa procedures, but sometimes the cynic in me can't help but snicker at the way they attempt to make the fat from some smelly old goat's milk sound like the poshest thing on the planet.
But I digress.
So, Once you're all scrubbed and slathered, they wrap you up in moist heated towels, then the tarps. You're like a mummy. Then they push a button and the table lowers down into a warm pool that's underneath it! It's like... a warm water sarcophagus. It's really very silly, but also very nice and warm and cozy, and I have really dry skin so it's nice to have such a relaxing fussy procedure done.
"I'll be back in a little while to check on you," said the attendant.
Okey dokey. I'm relaxed. I'm floating. I'm warm. It's kinda nice. Okay, the crappy Kenny G. music they're playing over the stereo could be turned down a bit. It's a bit much, this alto sax shmaltz that says "You're relaxed, yet you're still so hip." But all in all, I'm cool.
I'm guessing about 15 minutes have passed when I hear the attendant come back in. She's quiet and soothing.
"How you doing?" she asks.
"I'm doing great," I respond in my calm, relaxed voice. And I am. Life is good.
"Great," she says. This woman is very nice, she was there last month when the scheduling fiasco happened, and she's being extra-super nice to me today because she knows this is a "We messed up and we're sorry" service. I hear the door close behind her.
Suddenly, through my eye pillow, I start to see flashing lights. What the heck? Did she fool with the light switch on her way out? Flash Flash Flash. Like a strobe. Am I having some sort of freakish neurological reaction to Swiss Goat Butter?
Then the sirens start.
Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!
It's a fire alarm.
Great.
You see, fire alarms don't jingle. They don't hum. They don't sound like Kenny G. trying to induce you to relax. That would kind of defeat their purpose. They're designed to get your adrenaline pumping so that you can hightail your ass out of a burning building.
They're sort of antithetical to the whole "spa" experience.
I'm lying naked, swathed in goat butter and heated towels, submerged in a warm water sarcophagus...and the building is on fire. Or is it? So much for relaxing.
The door opens behind me. This has become so ridiculous it's now funny.
"This is funny!" I say to the attendant, who is horrified and embarrassed.
"I am SO SORRY!" she says. "But I have to get you out."
She gets my robe and I put it on with my slippers.
"We might not have to leave the building, we should wait and see."
Look, after 9/11, I'm getting my ass out of any building that is now announcing over the loudspeaker...very loudly: "YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE! YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE! YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE! (you've got it, please continue) THERE HAS BEEN AN EMERGENCY REPORTED IN THE BUILDING! PLEASE USE THE STAIRWAYS TO PROCEED TO THE GROUND FLOOR!"
Ground floor my butt. I want OUT. The attendants all agree that they need to take their clients out of the building, so we all proceed to the main courtyard of the Bellevue Galleria, where a crowd has now gathered. I am in a bathrobe, plastic slippers, and a turban. My face is blotchy and red from laying in the hot water. EVERYONE is staring at me and the three other ladies in our spa robes. They're trying not to smirk.
The Hooters waitresses all file by. For what may be the only time in my life, everyone continues looking at me instead of them.
Five minutes later we're allowed back in. I tell my attendant, who continues to be mortified, not to bother putting me back in the sarcophagus.
"We were almost done anyway, right?" I ask her.
"Well, yes. About five more minutes."
"It's gonna take me at least ten to relax enough for it to do any good," I said. "Let's just wind it up a little early."
She is beside herself. "No! I feel TERRIBLE! We must do SOMETHING! Let me give you a scalp massage!"
"I don't want a scalp massage. I want to go."
"Aiiee!"
In the end, I went and had a free eye makeup application. To make her feel better, mostly. I may not have had a flawless visit, but I walked out of there with new mascara and a funny story.
Oh yes, and skin as silky and moist as Swiss Goat's Butter..