The torture that is a facial

Every month of so, I get an acne facial.

Whenever I think of a facial, I think tea candles, aromatherapy, green face masks, and cucumbers over the eyes. Pampering and relaxing.

Well, acne facials are anything but.

I live in fear of Saturdays where I have to get an acne facial, a torturous process that my mom swears will combat my hereditary acne prone skin.

The first ten minutes or so, the nice asian lady giving the facial leads you on, making you think you're getting pampered. Gentle cotton pads cleanse and gently massage your face with a cleanser/scrub that smells like lemongrass. Afterwards, warm mist gets blown on your face and you feel like you're in a sauna. 

But then she places a thin strip of paper over your eyes and turns on a light, like at the dentist's office. I could feel my pulse rise even as I'm typing this.

*warning grossness approaching* *warning, diminished pride to ensue*

For the next thirty minutes, (I don't even know what she exactly does since my eyes are covered) she gently but firmly (emphasis on firmly) pokes and prods are your skin with needles. Squeezing and prickling all over, sometimes in the same spot over and over. Towards the end, I'm trying to act all manly  and not showing any reaction to the pain but really I'm yoga breathing (loud, obnoxious inhales and exhales) and flinching if it's particularly jarring. And at the end, I'm sure my face is just a red hot mess of oozing nasty. Luckily though, the lady is a pro and she always tells me I have it easy compared to some other of her clients. 

During the last few moments of the actual facial portion, I always feel like a victim. I'm emotionally drained from anticipating and bracing myself for any pain. I just think to myself "Just get it over with already" and lie there limp, my fighting spirit evaporated and my eyes dead to the world. (I think the lady can tell too, so embarrassing). 

But then, the light goes off. And a huge sigh of relief escapes my lips. 

And then.

Relaxation as a green mask goes over my face (but sadly, no cucumbers in sight). And I relax for twenty minutes after the abuse my face was confronted with just previously. 

For the most part, my account of an acne facial is probably loosely exaggerated. But no joke, while I'm getting poked, those thoughts and emotions really do arise in me. While I try to "man up" and take whatever pain comes, there's always that little voice that screams "WHY AM I VOLUNTARILY DOING THIS TO MYSELF?" Most likely, it's because for once I can't be distracting myself. I'm literally lying prone, unable to see, and only thinking while this crazy viet lady is poking me with needles. 

Even if I can't sum up the experience as positive or negative, or if it even helps my face, I still go every month. And as I'm writing this, about to go to Monica's graduation party, I'm thinking to myself "Geez, my face is a red hot mess, why do I always get a facial before a often rare social event where everyone sees me." 

Listening to Jesse McCartney again :)