Burn, baby, burn

We've heard for years that you must suffer for beauty. Well, what if you have to suffer for beauty and a story?

Such was the case when I was on assignment last weekend in Charlotte. It seemed like a sweet gig: assignment plus expenses and to top it all off, a complimentary spa treatment before I left on Sunday. I had been looking forward to it all week.

The resort (which shall remain nameless) chose a signature treatment for me, something that as a long-time spa baby, I always knew meant something good, something that I was sure to later praise effusively in print. How could a Pumpkin and Sweet Wine Body Scrub be anything less than amazing. Right? 

The treatment started off standard enough. Fluffy robes, quiet music, a technician quietly greeting me with a "Ms. Williams, please this way." The room looked a little more sterile than many spas, but I was not there on assignment for Spa Interiors magazine, so I wasn't going to let that bother me. But then the treatment started. 

Facedown, small little loofahs were rubbed over my body, gentle little sandpaper birds, and it was light and pleasant. Then the technician dipped a brush into a gooey mix and began to brush it over my body. It smelled very faintly of pumpkin (my nose not being in top form as it was smashed against the table's headrest), and then I felt a slight tingling on the back of my newly-shaven legs. Then a burning. Then a fireplace match.

Clear throat. Strained calmness in voice. "Is it supposed to burn?" I asked.

"Yes" was the reply. "It is supposed to warm up the body. This is a pumpkin and papaya enzyme and it's very intense. This is our most intense treatment."

"Yes, but it's more than warming, I'd have to say. It's pretty painful." Like spilling hot coals from the barbecue pit onto your legs painful.

"Well, let me just finish up and then I will neutralize with the scrub." And then the scrub. I couldn't see, but I imagined she was putting her weight into it like a woman kneading bread. Scrub, scrub, scrub Steph's skin off. I imagined I was beet red. I imagined my calves were bleeding from the self-inflicted road rash. And I very much regretted saying yes to this treatment.

When it was all over, I shakily put back on the fluffy robe and went to the waiting room to down glass after glass of infused water then changed clothes only to notice a large burn on my shoulder and back. My whole epidermis was mourning, so I couldn't exactly tell if it hurt more than the rest, but I should alert someone, get something to calm my skin. 

{Pause}: In the treatment's defense, I am a ball of sensitivity. Certain eye makeup will swell my eyes shut. Mosquito bites often leave hives. I can get sunburned in the shade from the reflection of the sun off concrete. Yes. 

But mentioning it was a bad idea. The resort response team went into action, those silent bank alarms being pushed over the building. We have a situation, they seemed to say. We have a special case, they added. And follow protocol we must, they asserted. 

How could it be bad? they asked. It's ORGANIC, they explained. Yea, well so are bees and peanuts and shrimp, responded the allergy sufferers of the world.

It didn't end well, although it could've ended worse. My last moments in the resort were spent slathering pureed cucumber over the burn, spilling bits of it on the bathroom floor and making an awful mess. But my skin is recovered, no permanent damage, and I will graciously omit recommending the treatment to my readers. Now, how about that soft and silky result?