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Get over your beauty shame, the spa is a judge-free zone.
How to get over your beauty shame-spiral when the embarrassment of mangy feet, beastly brows or lizard-skin keep you from booking a spa appointment. It’s Saturday morning and I feel disheveled, anxious and embarrassed as I race into the
Village Wellness Spa. Walking in the front door I’m instantly met with the steely glare of my no-nonsense esthetician, Polina. “You are late,” she chirps before turning on her heel and trotting to the treatment room. I follow her feeling the same dread I get before a dentist appointment. My anxiety this time however isn’t because I haven’t flossed. No, what I am carrying around is far worse; I’ve a case of beauty-guilty. It has been almost three months since my last spa visit—which has given me a host of disasters including feet that look like they belong in
Lord of the Rings—and my poor maintenance-routine has caused me to tumble into a beauty-shame spiral. To learn my beauty-shame confession, read on…
“It’s been such a busy few weeks,” I say, leading into my elaborate excuse for why I’m a mangy catastrophe. “I’ve been running around in heels, you know how my Hervé Leger booties are a nightmare…” my rambling trails off as Polina raises her hand in silent protest. (I’ve been a client of hers for ages; my shame spiral is obviously not new to her). “
Why do you come the spa?” she demands. “For your sparkling, feel-good personality,” I retort. (In hindsight, getting cheeky with a woman who can reduce a grown man to tears during a massage may not have been the best idea.) “If you were perfect already, you wouldn’t need to come to the spa,” Polina states matter of factly. She explains that facing gross feet and unsightly facial hair is a part of the job and I feel slightly less guilty about my unkempt appearance. “Why should I care if you want to walk around looking like
that,” she says, waving in my general direction. Glazing over my wounded expression she adds, “If you can’t see blood, don’t be a doctor. If you hate children, don’t be a nanny. And if you can’t
handle unshaved legs, don’t give
pedicures. You don’t have to apologize to me.” Having put my guilt to rest, I kick off my shoes and happily dunk my Bilbo Baggins feet into the warm water. I choose not to comment as Polina mutters something to the effect of “but you should apologize to your boyfriend.” Besides, who cares if my man gives me foot massages, I’ve a Polina.
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