Beauty within the beast
I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror the other day. And I didn't like what I saw.
For the past few months, I've managed to camouflage myself under so many warm layers of clothes that I look like Scott of the Antarctic every time I venture outdoors. But what I discovered is that even under those clothes, I still look like Scott of the Antarctic.
My body has a few more curves than it did last summer which would be O.K. if those curves were in the right places. The heels of my feet are cracking and my hands are scaly. My legs are almost as hairy as my boyfriend's, my toenails are dry and split, and as for my face it's looking a little puffy and blotchy.
I decided there was only one solution: It was time to change my ways and start treating my body as a temple. I mean, if Madonna can look so good at 42 with two kids, a personal trainer, yoga teacher, dietician, stylist and spiritual guide, why can't I at 32, as barren as the tundra, living in a Warsaw apartment, and with an expense account of zl. 300 rattling in my pocket?
I took my dilemma to a colleague who always floats around the office with glowing skin and a beatific smile. Sagely, she uttered just two words, "Etienne Vauthier."
"Etienne Vauthier," I repeated, like a disciple. And I did go forth and book an appointment with Etienne Vauthier.
Well, it wasn't Etienne in person. Etienne Vauthier is actually the name of a beauty salon on the edge of Warsaw's metro line, Natolin station. The real Mr. Etienne Vauthier lives in Brussels. He's a friend of the salon owners. But they like Etienne (and his name) so much, they decided to christen their business after him.
"Welcome," said Joanna Szafran, a diminutive woman who was to be my beautician for the afternoon.
She ushered me into a pale blue room that was as cozy as a cocoon. Filled with jars of creams and potions, plus some fearsome-looking electrical equipment, I wasn't sure what was going to happen to me. I'd asked for the works and I was going to get it.
Joanna handed me a rather fetching terry-cloth mumu, along with a pair of comfy paper slippers, and blue headband that made me look like Joan Collins from her Dynasty days. She also handed me a piece of soft paper. I looked at it for a moment before it dawned on me that it was actually a disposable G-string!
"Do I really have to wear this?" I asked, as I held aloft something with as much substance as gossamer.
"Yes, it's for your bikini wax," Joanna said firmly.
I climbed into bed, where Joanna tucked me under a blue blanket, and what followed was so relaxing and indulgent, I felt guilty. Cleansing, toning, a cream to gently slough away dead skin layers, a facial massage with a flower serum that almost put me to sleep, and finally, a green mask that made me look like a pale version of Kermit the Frog.
It was around the time that Joanna began to fiercely rub the wrinkles on my forehead that I realized I was in the presence of a higher being. I mean, here is a woman who actually enjoys peering into open pores. A woman who loves to squeeze at a stranger's spots and pluck stray hairs. A woman who could tell me in the nicest possible way that I had a small amount of capillary damage, but thankfully, no blackheads.
She asked about my home beauty regimen, and proudly I told her that I cleanse and moisturize every night, with occasional facial scrubs and moisturizing masks.
"And what do you do to your skin each morning?" she asked.
I hesitated because I knew I was about to be unmasked as the mere mortal that I really am.
"I just kind of rinse my face in the shower and then put on some moisturizer," I said quietly.
"Oh my God, I don't want to hear that. It's very bad," Joanna cried.
Thankfully she didn't lecture me, instead we talked generally about the drying effects of Warsaw water (Joanna and the team at Etienne Vauthier use only mineral water on their angelic faces) and how organic fruit and vegetables are the best. Luckily, she said that red wine is actually good for your skin thanks to all those tasty antioxidants it contains, but vodka is capital "B" Bad.
After a gentle application of some luscious eye cream and moisturizer, it was time for the waxing treatment to begin.
For anyone who has never had any experience with hot wax and hair removal, there's only one word to describe it Ouch! I've been having my legs waxed for six years and the sensation of body hair being ripped out of those little follicles at high speed is not an enjoyable experience, but rather, an endurable one. Think back to being a small kid and trying to remove a Band-Aid from your forearm, and you'll get some idea of what I'm talking about.
On this occasion, I think wearing that peculiar paper G-string made the whole process a little more uncomfortable.
When the last tingle of pain had vanished, and a final slap of oil had been applied to my legs and groin, another Etienne Vauthier materialized: Justyna Jurek. She prostrated herself at my feet and handed me paper slippers. A willowy slip of a girl, I was soon to discover that she had all the strength of a Ukrainian wrestler as she pummeled, rubbed and pulled my body for the next hour in the designated massage room a shell-pink retreat with discreet lighting and piped music.
"Does this hurt?" Justyna asked as she ground her knuckles up and down my thigh.
"A bit," I said through clenched teeth.
"That's O.K. For the first two, maybe three visits, it can be painful, then it stops hurting," she said reassuringly. "I try to give my boyfriend a massage but he always runs away. He thinks it hurts too much."
I was quietly dreading the next 50 minutes, but as Justyna worked away, my muscles relaxed and I was soon back on the verge of falling into a peaceful sleep. I have to say having my chest massaged with "bust-firming cream" was a new experience but we talked politely about Warsaw's strange winter weather and the moment quickly passed.
So, four hours after entering this shrine, I literally slipped out of there with a body and face covered in oils and lotions. I felt so blissful and relaxed that the metro ride back to Centrum station simply flew by. "Etienne Vauthier," I cooed knowingly to myself.
