Former Selves

So I was just thinking in the shower, I used to have an aesthetician. I really did. I didn't have four children nor a mortgage. But at a time I can remember if I squint into my minds eye hard enough, I remember that I had a manicurist, a stylist and an aesthetician. The manicurist did the hands and feet obviously. The stylist did the hair and occassionally told me what make up looked better than others. But the aesthetician, that one was the true luxury.

The aesthetician I would go to for full body treatments, massages and delicious things that now seems like some other world to me.

I was thinking of this, as I mentioned, while I was scrubbing up with some Caress soap that's burned brown sugar and karite butter. I'm not even certain what a karite is or how you might milk it to obtain butter but, it's pretty darn good.

It's hard to enjoy the pleasures obtained at the Wal-Mart when you are reminiscing about how amazing the sea salt scrub used to be at Phillipe's.

It was like 100 bucks even almost 20 years ago.

It was worth every damned penny.

You'd strip down to your panties, and then put on one of their robes. A nice lady with a calm voice would lead you to a room to listen was I would say was some sort of New Age/Vangelis bastardization while you sipped herbal tea and your room was prepared.

After your tea you'd step into a darkened room and lay down on a massage table, sans robe. From your temples to the bottoms of your feet you were rubbed down with the most amazing oils, getting a massage that made you want to sleep right there. Once you were perfectly slippery, they'd start rubbing on the sea salt, crusting you up like a roast for Sunday. They'd rub and crust until you were similarly covered completely in this heavy sea salt compound.

Once they were sure you were completely covered the entire table would be covered with a steam tent, with only your head sticking out. It was disconcertingly like an iron lung, except that it wasn't iron and it didn't make you breathe. It did give that sort of visual feel though, just the head popping out. I sort of wonder now if kids would even know what an iron lung is, or polio.

After 20 minutes or so of steam being pumped into the tent to open your pores and, I'm not sure about this part, the salt and oil would do something good for you. I don't know what. But I liked it. Then they'd remove the tent and you and your crusty body would arise and go to the next room and lay down on another table, this one ceramic and with a thin layer of towels, with a vichy shower overhead.
And they'd dim the lights and light candles and play more music and you would just lay there,

It was like resting under the most peaceful, pure waterfall ever. You'd slough off all that salt and oil and a new person would emerge from under it. Someone more beautiful, more together, more calm and clearly the sort of person who had an aesthetician.

The truth of it, however would be that you'd feel amazing but look bedraggled. Drowned. You'd look as though you'd been penitentially exfoliated, glowing red and slightly greasy.

I'm sitting here right now 20 years later, looking bedraggled but I feel amazing. I suppose there is something to be said for the karite butter even though it came from Walmart then, eh?

Even with my more reasonable, less extravagant version of myself at the helm however, I with I had an aesthetician. Just for the wicked fun of SAYING it.

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