T
HERE is an uncomfortable vibration emanating from the region of my hands, the kind that you can’t quite place because your nerves are shot. It travels into my ear, creating a tickle that makes me want to bite down and stretch my facial muscles to make it go away. I can’t see the source of the vibration, but it feels like, arm to palm, I’m being stroked with a velvet glove. That is vibrating. Uncomfortably.
It is more an electrical kind of itchiness than a massage, but a massage it is meant to be. Believe it or not, this is part of a facial.
To be precise, it is a “Herbal Facial” I’ve decided to try out based on sheer envy of the person who offered it. She is a pretty Bengali woman with radiant skin, twinkling eyes, dimpled smile and the eyelashes that come from those authentic subcontinental genes. Non-invasive, so safe, no? Could I, with my genetic code steeped in African sun and air and soil also have those full brows, artfully shaped in a mischievouswhile-contemplative arch, and the yellowgold tone of Deepika Padukone? Of course not, but she promised she would try.
I should have been warned. By the sometimes over-thinning of my brows with her precise spinning cotton thread, that plucked plucked plucked arches in accurate angles, an art to watch yet frighteningly overzealous.
I should have been warned. It might not be a good idea to not have checked out the “herbal” products. “Don’t worry, it’s very good” she said with the slight head nod that left me feeling guilty about questioning any further.
I should have been warned. When my eyes started to sting a little . . .
But we zone in on their faces, mesmerising beauty beacons, perfected by turmeric, sandalwood and mystery herbs. To the allure of their natural knowledge of “saloon-ing” despite the worry of maybe less-than-clean towels and possibly reused disposable implements.
Friends in the north swear by their lady, whose husband will offer tea and biscuits — and whose little girl is known to play dressup with client’s clothing while her mum is waxing off the indignity of facial and body hair.
“I got off the table and the child was wearing my stockings on her head!”
“That’s not bad, she was fussy once so she sat on my belly while [lady] was busy.”
Another said the family’s secondary business, surely garlic peeling from the lingering scent, had her running for the shower the moment the hair was removed.
Why do you go, then? “She’s the best. Quick, easy, no fuss and soooo gentle. The little girl is adorable.”
Meanwhile, my face is being steamed and massaged vigorously in a scrubbing motion that surely must bring the blood to the surface. Cannot wait to see the result.
Then it starts to feel slightly suffocating. Fish-mouthing for air as my nostrils are closed, first right, then left, in what I hope is some sort of Ayurvedic rhythm for healthy pores. Nostrils released, a piece of metal is tapped against the skin. Eh? Metal energy therapy, perhaps. It is therapeutic, antiseptic copper. Warm water and a sponge (new, never used? I’m meditating on it) wash off several layers of potions and lotions. Then a cement-like mask. I am mummified and immobile.
She disappears to do a quick shape and sweep on another fan’s forehead.
Minutes pass, my eyes tingle. I dare to open one, heavy with the herby-smelling concrete mix.
She returns, cleans up and slathers on an icy moisturiser.
My eyes are slightly red, but my skin feels clean and fresh, and could that be a hint of a golden glow? Turmeric?
No, she smiles with genuinely deep dimples, but offers no further explanation, handing over a bill that I hope will be the only cost of this interesting experiment. LS
The writer has had no offers of Bollywood scripts yet, nor any long-lasting complications