I Paid Someone $75 to Stick Burning Things In My Ears

In a sudden moment of panic before leaving for work on Thursday morning, I googled “should you tip for ear candling.” There were no relevant results.

The woman who I’d emailed about an appointment described herself as a “bodywork practitioner,” which seemed like a sign that she a) had spent some quality time in Boulder, b) would be wearing artful jewelry, and c) saw her role as comparable to that of a doctor or physical therapist, meaning that tips would be inappropriate or even offensive.

I opted to take out just the $75, and felt relieved that I didn’t have to throw in another $15 for a tip. It was already expensive enough, and I’d contemplated canceling at least five times.

When I walked into the building, an old loft space off Union Square which smelled like herbs from all the acupuncturists who rented space there, I saw that I’d been right about one thing. She was wearing a silver choker necklace in the shape of a bird, the kind of thing that looks great on petite, ageless women with white-blond curls, and ridiculous on anyone else.

I perched on the edge of the heated massage table while she showed me the ear candling cones. As it turns out, they’re not candles. They’re hollow cones made from cloth that has been soaked in beeswax. I found this unexpectedly disappointing.

I should probably rewind here and explain that I’ve been obsessed with the idea of ear candling since I was about eleven. Back then, I went to church every Sunday, in a old grey wooden building from Colonial times that was once used as a set in a Wes Anderson film. There was one hippie-ish family that regularly attended the services, and they stood out because the rest of the congregation was exactly what you’d expect to see at an Episcopal church in a coastal New England town: retired admirals in navy blue blazers, women with sensible short haircuts and reading glasses, well-behaved blond children.

Anyway, the female half of this hippie couple had a massage business (god knows what all the admirals thought of that) and was always donating gift certificates for ear candling whenever there was a church fundraiser. As far as I know, no one ever bought one, even after all the hand-sewn angel ornaments, individually wrapped mini-loaves of lemon cake, and needlepoint bookmarks with crosses had sold out.

I was intrigued, though, and decided that one day, when I had my own money, I would try ear candling. I wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but I pictured lying on my back in a dark room while witchy women hovered around with burning tapers. When one of them inserted a candle into my ear, I imagined, it would come out nearly black from all the dirt and filth that had entered my ear canals and was heading for my brain.

As it turns out, that’s not so different from what people who practice ear candling claim. Some spas say that it has a “stimulating and invigorating effect” on the central nervous system and brain. Others claim that it “sharpens mental function.” NaturalNews.com, which is responsible for producing most of the dubious content that appears in my Facebook news feed, published an article which states, “Other potential benefits may include improved lymphatic fluid flow through the body, improved colour perception, a more balanced emotional state and clearer thinking.”

Audiologists, on the other hand, point out various potential risks such a puncturing an eardrum, getting burned by dripping wax, or starting a fire. They note that ear candling hasn’t been proven to be effective. But the truth is, I’d been willing to ignore all of that if it felt even slightly pleasant or relaxing. It wasn’t.

Karen, the massage therapist, started out by rubbing my face with essential oils. That was over all too soon, and then I was lying on one side, helping her guide the first cone into my ear. It didn’t go that far in — more iPhone earbud than Q-tip, if that makes sense.

Once it was in place, I smlled a little smoke but felt nothing. For forty minutes, I lay there, first on my right side and then on my left, afraid to make any sudden movements that might result in the burning cone toppling over onto my face or hair. The time passed slowly and the playlist moved from Coldplay to The Shins to Iron & Wine as I thought, over and over again, “I am paying $75 for this. I am playing $75 for this. I am paying $75 for this.”

When it was over, my ears felt like they normally do: fine, but not great. Nothing had changed. That burning smell was coming from my money, which I had just set on fire.