The Unbearable Lightness of Spa-ing

Now that I’ve described my least favorite spa experience while I was in the Philippines, here comes the more difficult task—attempting to pick a favorite, which I already know I cannot do. So maybe let’s go for the second least favorite. Maybe process of elimination is the only way to do this.

At the risk of sounding incorrigibly spoiled by too much of a good thing, I have to tell you that I was not at all impressed with Chi Spa, in the Edsa Shangra-La Hotel. I know, five-star hotel, award-winning spa brand, what’s the problem, Spadette? It’s probably more a function of the fact that Chi is located in a hotel. I don’t care much for hotel spas because they have to appeal to such a wide variety of people. The hotel is going to have visitors from countries all over the world who come from all walks of life. That’s quite a segment of the population to please. How do you tease out levels of spa expertise, the tastes, the cultural disparities of such an enormous group? You don’t. So you go middle of the road.

That’s what I disliked about Chi Spa. But what really bothered me is that it didn’t deliver what it promised. The Shangri-La hotel has a distinctive Asian flavor and the spa menu reflects that. It offers several exotic treatments unique to Asia. When I was booking my treatment, however, things became a little muddled—or clearer, if you buy into my theory of hotel spa gentrification. When I asked the receptionist about the treatments under the heading “traditional massage,” as explained they didn’t sound so traditional to me. For example, they offer Tui Na, which is a Chinese treatment, except that when she described it the treatment suddenly included Swedish massage. Wha? The Philippine Hilot, I think, also had Swedish, and some Shiatsu, which is Japanese.

No matter, I was signing up for the Himalayan Head and Scalp Massage. By this time, I’d had several full-body treatments for several days in a row—I know! I’m so sorry to brag! I craved a break. Also, I’d heard of this head and scalp treatment, which sounded so luxurious, but never had one. Who doesn’t like to have their head and scalp massaged, I ask? Let them mix it up with a little Japanese this or Chinese that, I’m going to have an hour and fifteen minute head and neck massage orgy! I felt I covered my bases—or at least the most important base, my head.

We can skip over the look of Chi Spa. It’s totally beautiful eye candy, so enough said. We can even skip over my lovely therapist, D. Or maybe we shouldn’t. D, in fact, sort of muddled my spa experience beyond my menu issues. When we were walking to the massage room Dang asked me why I didn’t consider having a whole body massage in addition to the scalp and head. This question was a little like being offered a plate of delightful food—take your pick of whatever would be most scrumptious to you—and as you select your one or two pieces, thank the server and are about to take a bite, the server says, “That’s it? Really? Why don’t you take a few more pieces? Come on, there’s plenty. You know you want it.”

It throws you off your game. First I didn’t question my decision. “No, that’s okay." I said. "I’m fine with just the head massage. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Alright,” she says, sounding deflated.

Now, an hour and fifteen minutes is a long time, so as she’s working on my back, which surprises me since it’s a HEAD and SCALP massage, D points out that I have knots back there. Knots that, if they have not been removed after the amount of massages I’ve had thus far, it should be assumed I will have forever and ever. I own them. Or they own me. But instead of telling her not to worry about it, I cave. I tell her it’s okay to work on my back a bit. It seems to make her happy. More time passes and though she should well be on the head by now, she asks if it’s okay to work on my legs. Oy.

I like D, she told me her story—teenage daughter she’s raising alone, loves the States, hopes to be transferred to one of the Chi Spas that will be opening here in the States within the next couple of years so that she can fulfill her dream and have her daughter attend a good university. As I’ve talked about so many times, it’s hard to complain to a massage therapist about your treatment when you’re in the throes of it. You’re naked, she’s not, and she’s being so nice. And if I were paying full price ($90-ish—cheap by US standards) things may have been different. I may have stood up for myself. Instead, I just got bored. I totally give up on the idea that this was going to balls-out fun for my head and now it’s not.

You get pretty good at calculating time when you’ve had a lot of massages and so I sort of mentally check out until about, oh, ten minutes before the treatment is to end. I start coming back to life when she begins to zero in on my head. “Here it comes,” I think. “So what if it’s short, it’s going to be sweet sweet.”

But it wasn’t. I’ve had better scalp massages at Sine Qua Non, my hair salon in Chicago. Sometimes my stylist asks the adorable Mexican lady—whose job is usually to sweep up shorn hair and such—if she’s got a sec to shampoo me. Now, that lady knows her way around a scalp. Dang did a sort of gentle tugging at little chunks of hair, using a rhythmic beat. Is that what they do in the Himalayas? I have no idea. But it was weak. And I think I can safely say that I’ve still never had a Himalayan Head and Scalp Massage.

Look for Part II on this story tomorrow.

By the way, I don't know what The Unbearable Lightness of Spa-ing is supposed to mean, either. I just needed to title for the blog.

By the way again, if you click on the Himalayan Head and Scalp Massage link in this post it will get you to an Indian Head Massage. I couldn't even find anything with the words head and Himalayan.