Episode 6: Not So Happy Ending

Since neither Kristin nor I knew exactly what we were getting ourselves into, “happy ending” rumors and all, we agreed to ease into the spa experience and start with a low budget, expat-run spa. Though I’m not a member of the primped, plucked and frocked, the little bit of vanity I had working for me told me that I was starting to look like an old shoe. I began my spa week of luxury with the hour and a half long facial at the low cost of 150 RMB ($22). It sounded like a good deal to me considering the equivalent in Denver would have been at least $80.

We were greeted at the door by five smiling Chinese girls of varying heights and widths, dressed in blue jeans and Old Navy t-shirts with little American flag decals. The spa was modest. Clean, but nothing fancy. Just my speed. We took a seat on a little bench and were given warm water in a flimsy plastic cup.

One of the things I had actually adjusted to by this time was drinking water at room temperature. According to an old Chinese superstition, consuming cold beverages can open you up to demons entering your body. Therefore, the Chinese typically do not consume cold beverages. Traditionally, even beer is served at room temperature, though I’ve never adjusted to that.

As we sipped on our water, Kristin prattled on about her new Ayi, Jasmine, not cleaning with the properly designated floor soap. Though Kristin had finally found a Chinese Ayi she was happy with — after cycling through a few — she still complained about her non-stop.

After a few minutes I was rescued by a cute girl who surfaced from a back room. She had a slight frame, long straight black hair that was tied up in a knot on the top of her head, and freckles sprinkled across her nose. She peeked at the appointment book, and said with a smile, “Jenny-fer?”

I smiled, gave Kristin a quick nod and disappeared into a back room. The room was dark. The only light cast came from a tea light candle in an Earthenware Budda. His hands were out-stretched like he was trying to hug me from a far. Without speaking, she motioned for me to lie down on a bed that was draped in a white sheet.

I obeyed dutifully. Then she said, “You look very tired.”

“Yeah. I am a little tired. Not sleeping so well.”

Then she placed her two satiny soft hands on my cheeks, pressed down ever so slightly and said, “Your skin…it’s very bad. How long you no have a facial.”

“I don’t know. Six, eight months, maybe?”

“Oh. That is very bad. You have very bad skin and need facial two time per month.”

Funny. I thought I came here to feel better about myself.

By this point I just wanted her to either shut up and rub my face so it’s clean and smooth or curl up and die. I’d have been fine with either result. I stopped responding to her questions, so she stopped talking. Maybe she got the hint or maybe my skin was so bad, the worst she’d ever seen, she had to really concentrate on the task at hand.

At the end of my hour and a half facial, which included a brief arm, hand, leg and foot massage, I resurfaced from the cave in the back to Kristin waiting for me.

“Wow. What did she do? You look five years younger,” Kristin said,

“Not sure. I slept through most of it,” I said, yawning. I walked outside and took in a deep breath. Pollution filled my lungs.

Kristin followed behind me and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Nope. Just tired. I’m gonna bag lunch and just have Chen take me home.”

“You can’t do that. What will I do for lunch?”

I can and I will.

“Just eat at home. Have Jasmine make you something.”

“Fine.” She huffed. “We’re still on for tomorrow, though, right?”

“Yep. Foot massages at the local joint on the corner of Jin Xu Lu at 11 o’clock. I’ll be there.”

“And you’re not allowed to bail on lunch afterwards.”

“That’s fine,” I sighed. I climbed into my Corolla, closed the door and said, “Hui Jia.” (Pronounced Hway Jia, meaning “Return home.”)

Even though my apartment was a five minute drive away, I fell asleep on the way. As luck would have it, the elevator was out of order. I dragged my weary body to the seventh floor, climbed into the bed, put my head phones on, and fell asleep listening to sweet Chinese nothings on my iPod.

***

<<I’m going to back fill research on Chinese foot massage here.>>

The next day I met Kristin at one of the thousand local foot massage parlors in a two mile radius of her house.

Though it appeared clean, there was a hint of an unmistakable odor that permeated the air: cat pee. We looked at each other with wrinkled noses, but continued to check in for our 60 RMB ($8) hour long foot massages. As we waited I noticed a blackboard easel by the door. It had all of their services handwritten in blue chalk, in English. I scanned the list and paused when I got to “VIP” massage.

I wonder what that is?

I kept reading and a few lines down it said, “Horny cure massage.” I pointed it out to Kristin; she covered her mouth and said, “Oh my god. That’s disgusting.”

Trying not to laugh, I pointed at “Horny cure massage” and asked the hostess, “Shen ma” (What?).

“Ni Jia dao,” (you know) she said, lowering her head and pursing her lips.

“Wo bu jia dao,” (I don’t know) I said, putting on my most innocent face and still trying not to laugh.

Then she looked around to make sure no one else saw her and she did the universal sign for jerking off with her hand. Kristin and I burst into laughter and our hostess got rid of us by escorting us to the back. She seated us in a room with six empty massage chairs, clicked on the TV and closed the door behind her when she left.

“I can’t believe you,” Kristin said under her breath, but shut up right away because our two uniformed masseuses, carrying large wooden tubs filled with hot water, entered the room.

We put our feet in the water and the girls went to work. They started on our backs and shoulders while our feet warmed to the proper temperature. After a few minutes, like synchronized swimmers, they moved in tandem on to the feet. To be honest, it may have hurt less if I had just put my feet in a pair of vice grips for an hour. We writhed in pain the entire time, biting our lips to quell the shouts for help that were at the tips of our tongues. Why anyone would ever volunteer to pay eight dollars to put their feet through this was now a mystery to me.

It was more of the same from the masseuse, too. She put hand on one spot of my foot and asked, “No sleep good?” I nodded in silent confirmation. A few agonizing minutes later she touched another part of my foot and

said, “Liver. Bad liver.”

Hmm. That must be the bottle of wine I drank last night.

The next day when we got manicures and pedicures at an upscale Asian Spa chain was more of the same. Except this time they asked me when the last time I got a pedicure was because my feet were “very bad.”

Not only did I now have the worst skin ever, but I was also sleep-deprived and apparently had a bad liver. Now my feet were very bad. Clearly my quest to boost my spirits by getting down and dirty with the locals was having the opposite effect.

The next stop on our Shanghai spa tour was the Shangri-La Hotel. Shangri-La is a well-known chain of five star hotels throughout Asia. We had chosen the five star option for the most intimate of spa experiences: the full body massage.

The place was incredible. Frankly, it was a little too fancy for my personal, down-to-earth taste, but it was beautiful none the less. Sprawling marble floors, impeccable lighting that made everyone in the place look like better than they do, sleek furniture, modern artwork and peaceful water features to complete the perfect feng shui.

The spa smelled of spiced tea and looked like a mini-Asian oasis. Dimly lit with candles, a little stone passageway lined with Budda statues and bamboo guided us into a luxuriously appointed room. Though everyone else was speaking in voices just lower than a whisper, Kristin busted out with, “Now this is a spa.”

“Shh,” whispered the lady behind the counter as we approached it to check in. She gave us some yummy spiced tea and guided us down a long dark corridor into the changing room. We each slid behind a wine colored, silk curtain and changed into our supple robes.

“So…what? Do we go fully naked? Or do we keep on our dralls?” I asked.

“What? You’ve never been to a real spa before?” Kristin chirped in the typical condescending tone she took with me.

“No, I have. I’ve just never had a full body massage. I usually just do a facial, mani and pedi…so do we go naked, or what?” I rolled my eyes at her in the privacy of my changing room.

“Well, usually they supply you with spa underwear, but there doesn’t seem to be any so I’m going Commando.”

“Alright…here goes nothin’,” I said. I slipped out of my dralls and into my soft bamboo robe, put the last of my stuff in the wicker basket, placed it in my locker, and waited outside for Kristin to appear.

Moments later Kristin arrived and the hostess guided us to our own private sanctuaries. Soft asian-inspired music blended hypnotically with the gentle trickle of a rock-filled fountain that was prominently displayed in the corner of the room. My masseuse, an attractive twenty-something Chinese woman, was patiently waiting my arrival with a pleasant, pre-programmed grin and hands clasps in prayer. Once the hostess closed the door, without hesitation, the masseuse approached me, untied my robe, removed it and hung it on a dark wood clothes tree in the corner opposite the water feature.

Umm. Hello.

I dove face down onto the bed and was instantly covered in a warm blanket that felt like it just came out of the drier.

And then she went to work.

If this bitch calls me fat I just might have to deck her.

She started with my neck, shoulders and back then worked her way down to my legs. I’ll admit, I was a tad uncomfortable with this stranger rubbing on me, but I went with it. Once she finished my back side off, she flipped me over like a perfectly browned pancake.

Now face-side up, she started with my head, temples and my shoulders. And then, she eased the sheet down, exposing my breasts.

Hmm. That’s odd…and cold.

And then she flumped my boobs. Yep. Just like they were two miniature balls of pizza dough; she tossed and turned and flipped and flopped them. Like an eighth-grader in Sex-Ed class I had a hard time containing my laughter, but I somehow managed.

At least she didn’t tell me my boobs were bad.

When it was all said and done, I did feel better. More relaxed, which I guess was the point. And I was elated that she didn’t tell me I was fat or that I needed breast implants.

Though this one hour massage cost twice as much as the facial, foot massage, and mani-pedi combined, I was still on a miniature high. I peeled away from Kristin for the afternoon and decided to throw caution into the wind and get a haircut and highlight.

I went back to the expat-run salon where I had my facial. I had seen a bunch of western women getting their hair cut there a few days before. That was enough of a testimonial for me.

I was greeted by the same five girls again, but this time they all smiled and said, “Hello, Jenny-fer.”

Everybody knows my name. How nice.

Escorted directly to the chair, hua cha (pronounced hwa cha meaning flower tea) in hand with two men — one tall and one short — raking their hands through my hair inspecting it like they were looking for lice; I flipped through color swatches and tried my best to explain what I wanted.

The tall guy looked at me in the mirror, held up a long bunch of hair and said, “Same?”

“Yes, please. Same style. A little shorter.”

“I know. I know,” he said, nodding his head with pride.

On to the color.

There were two price ranges for the hair color. Erring on the side of caution, I chose the most expensive just in case the old adage, “You pay for what you get” had any validity to it. As I would have in the states, I selected a warm, reddish copper color that is similar to my actual hair color and a honey blondish brown.

Their quizzical looks and hushed whispers should have been my first clue that maybe they were a tad uncomfortable with the color process, but I was going to think positively (The Secret) and have faith that these professional hair stylists at this expat salon knew exactly what they were doing.

After a few hours, and several more hushed meetings, I surfaced with a new hair-do.

To paint as accurate image of me as possible, imagine Kathy Griffin’s head, a red candy apple, and pink cotton candy, put it all in a blender and voila — the new me.

I should’ve stopped while I was ahead.

Not only did the color make me look like Rainbow Bright, the cut was all over the place. Layers were uneven, the length was too short. As an added bonus, now I had bangs, which I had never, ever had in my life.

Defeated and deflated and feeling like I wanted to curl up under a rock and resurface when it was time to go to Thailand for Christmas, I skulked out of the salon, feigning happiness so as not to hurt anyone’s feelings, climbed into the car and said, “Hui Jia.”

***

This was a fun episode. Makes me miss China: The Price of Tea — Tales of an errant expat in China