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.
