Challenge Accepted: How 1 Dude Beautified Like a Woman

Before receiving my first facial, I was fixated on the mask. And those cucumber-type things you place over your eyes. My vision of a facial? Straight-up-girlie shenanigans. But then I strolled into Chicago's Waldorf Astoria Spa & Health Club, strapped on a lovely terry-cloth robe, and parked myself down on a Sky Mall (RIP)-worthy electronic chair. My informative and gentle-handed esthetician Catherine informed me that nearly half her clients are male.

I then proceeded to enjoy an Elysian facial ($195), aka an hour of getting my low-hung cheeks (my wife says I have old-man jowls) rubbed, massaged, scrubbed, and buffed to a fine sheen. After my face was thoroughly cleansed, for my delight (or humiliation), Catherine then placed a 24-karat-gold collagen-infused mask on me. Any fears I had of it stripping away my masculinity quickly subsided when she slowly peeled it off and my face felt as soft as my 18-month-old nephew Dylan's powdered bum.

Did I love when she exfoliated my skin, bringing blackheads to the surface via extractions? No. No, I did not. It felt like my skin was being pinched by tiny nipple clamps. Would I go back for another facial? Absolutely.

"Your feet are disgusting, and we're going on vacation," my wife will often nudge me before a trip. Typically, my visits to the mani-pedi salon have been preceded by such complaints. So I wasn't necessarily a foot- and hand-filing virgin when I visited the luxe, Asian-inspired Chuan Spa at Chicago's Langham Hotel for a Of the Orient Caviar and Pearl waterless pedicure ($135) and Caviar and Pearl manicure ($95). Still, being splayed on a horizontal "zero gravity" chair with pedicurist Lizzette at my feet was a first.

She explained how this rarely used treatment, which involves rubbing caviar-infused ointment on my calves so as to reduce the presence of varicose veins (who knew?), is more sanitary than your typical feet-in-jets therapy. And I must say, having my toes wrapped in hot towels was nothing if not sheer relaxation.

The Caviar and Pearl manicure, which I was surprised to learn is quite common for men these days, was more by the books: fingernails filed, that nasty cuticle stuff plucked out. And yes, even several days later, my nails are still shiny like a finely buffed hot rod. I consider that a win.

After the deeds were done, my wife was pleased. Considering she has previously told me "there's nothing worse than scratchy fingers and toenails when you're getting your love on," I was definitely date ready.

Once, on the night before my wedding, my wife forced me to get a spray tan. It seemed logical enough: there was an occasion for which I wanted to look sun-kissed. But looking like a bronzed statue in the middle of Winter was not entirely appealing. Still, I headed to Nordstrom Spa on Chicago's Michigan Avenue for a full-body spray tan ($60).

My peppy spray tanner Madi — who regularly referenced her work as Picasso-esque — made sure I did not walk out looking like Pauly D. Plus, she told me that nearly 40 percent of her clients are male. I was further assured by the fact that she uses St. Tropez, a high-end formula known for lack of blotchiness and its near impossibility of leaving customers resembling a Madame Tussauds creations. When she sprayed me, it felt a bit chilly on my skin, but the heated room helped me stay comfortable.

Though I showered six hours later, my skin smelled like suntan lotion for at least a day. Still, I'd be lying if I claimed it didn't cross my mind to pop back in for another spray when it faded away approximately five days later. Don't judge me.

I've gotten haircuts. Thousands of them. That's because my thick, Jew-fro-prone hair grows quickly. But there was something about what Frank at Soho House Chicago's Cowshed Spa does that made this chop extraspecial. Perhaps it was how the only Soho House barber in the US meticulously works each part of my head, separating it into sections as if he were diagramming the different cuts of steak on a cow. Or maybe it was the gentle swiping motion he employed when giving me a straight-razor shave on the back of my neck. (Side note: dude accurately guessed how long it had been since I got my last haircut strictly based on my neck-hair length.) I think what it comes down to is care.

Typically my haircuts, which involve a shampoo, a scissor trim, and clippers on my neck, are in, out, and on with my life. Getting a thorough, intricate haircut (a steal at $28) wasn't so much a stretch as a long-overdue necessity. Whereas I typically go for the messy-shaggy look, a more refined haircut boosted my self-confidence and gave me an always-welcomed feeling of maturity (after all, I am 30!). This wasn't pampering: it was an act of adulthood. So, ladies, I now get why you spend so much time at the salon — and perhaps even get so many blowouts.

To live life as a man is traditionally to never experience waxing (well, unless your name is Channing Tatum and you're starring in a movie about life as a male stripper). So to say I didn't want to have my eyebrows waxed (let alone anything else — we'll get to that later) would be an understatement. But there I was, face toward the ceiling, with my esthetician Monica hovering over me at Trump Hotel Chicago Spa ready for my eyebrow wax ($40).

She first applied warm wax at that middle spot where I have a semblance of a unibrow, and a small layer beneath each of my brows. She then placed the wax paper over it, let it cool, and then bam! She ripped it right off. Wait, that wasn't so bad — so that's it? Just some gooey wax between my eyes and under my brow, a three-second countdown, and a slight tug on my skin? Yep, she told me. OK. I can deal with that. Hell, let's do more. Actually, I thought, let's not. The last thing I wanted was to be that guy with eyebrows resembling half moons. No, I think it was in my best interest to let my Cara Delevingne-y eyebrow bushiness reign.

I was sitting pretty at the immaculate, stunning Peninsula Chicago Spa about to received a Salt and Oil Body Scrub ($90). Beth, my soft-spoken body therapist, asked me, "Do you want to feel relaxed, energized, or detoxed?" I paused. "Um, all the above?" No go, she said. So I chose energized.

That meant for the next half hour she would be scrubbing light blue salt into the crevices of my body — and there are many — to detox my skin. Leaving the spa, I didn't necessarily feel amped up so much as . . . clean. Dead skin went bye-bye, and I was tingly in a unexpected, exposed way. Though my skin felt a little sensitive for the next few days and I needed to heavily lotion up my arms and legs, I could still see the service being a once-in-a-while treat — especially if it were balanced by a hydrating massage. (Hint hint, wifey.)

You want me to get waxed where? My man-junk area? Not gonna happen. I "manscape" with clippers like a needlepoint sewing master so as not to manhandle the delicate brush. Having a stranger literally rip the hair off anywhere near my prized possession? No thanks. It’s amazing, though, what the power of persuasion will do. All it took was my wife reminding me that women get bikini waxes on the regular and that poor little me could handle a wee bit of pain. And so I was off to get Bliss Spa's Ultimate He-Wax ($125) — which basically translates to "we're going to wax the hair everywhere on your damned body."

I wouldn't be having that. So like any good husband already knows, I compromised. Deanna, my lovely esthetician, told me that men of all shapes and sexual preferences have this done. She guided me through the process, ensuring me it wouldn't hurt too badly. It really didn't: Bliss uses strip-less wax, which I learned is far less painful when it's peeled off, since paper is not used to take it out. Rather, the wax hardens and the esthetician rips the piece right off. When she was taking off, it felt like someone was roughly brushing my hair. The small amount of hair on my back? Gone! What I like to refer to as my sideburns beside my member? A thing of the past. Deanna told me I was a great sport and that she thought I looked just lovely down there now. I walked out feeling oddly clean and refreshed. Did I temporarily look a bit like I was prepping to wear a string bikini? Perhaps. But who's really to say?

Once my Valentine's Day spa journey was over, I felt wonderful, refreshed, and a bit tired. Was I now suddenly a spa convert, already on the phone ready to book a slew of future appointments? Well, not entirely. Some of these treatments — like the body scrub and the waxing — seem a bit unnecessary for my day-to-day life. But I could absolutely see myself getting another facial, a mani-pedi, or a spray tan again soon. And most importantly, post-spa-adventure, I felt undeniably date ready. My self-esteem had been given a major boost, and I was now confident enough in my rejuvenated self to impress my wife (which, let's be honest, when you're married, is not always easy to do.) And hey, in my world, that's crucial.