I got such a kick out of this column about bottom facials. Apparently, this spa service is new to England, and a 30-minute session is £40 (about $80). The columnist, Carol Midgley, doesn't understand the appeal:
Unless you are the type of person who habitually drops their pants and moons in public (in which case you are Paul Gascoigne), then there’s only really your partner who sees the bloody thing. And if a man will dump you over a stray arse pimple, then I suggest you leave him. Now. Because he’s a nightmare.
Well, she has a point there. Butt seriously, folks (sorry, I can't help myself): go ahead and
I've also wondered about the point of facials for your bottom. I'm sure that with exfoliation, the rump is smoother and softer. Beyond that, though, is such a sybaritic service necessary? I know "assne" exists, but not to the extent that it does on the face and shoulders. (If you do have the occasional bottom blemish, that's okay, you know. It happens. They can be prevented by exfoliating your bum in the shower and wearing cotton grannypants rather than lacy little things that chafe.)
Nope, you won't see me lining up for a butt facial. Not even if it returned my bottom to its initial baby-bottomed smoothness. Because I am a bit neurotic, I would wind up spending the entire treatment time thinking anti-fart mantras such as "I hope that cabbage from lunch doesn't come back to haunt me." Which, of course, means that the cabbage will indeed unleash its noxious fumes upon the poor esthetician who's gingerly inspecting my tuchus for wrinkles. It's not for me, but I'm sure some readers swear by this treatment. Anyone brave enough to share?