Linger, even.
Close your eyes and think "spa". Regular spa goer, or not, imagine yourself in a space that feels spa-like. Pull context and content from commercials, movies or ads if needed. With what tools are you building this visioned experience? Experiencing this new place with all of your senses: What do you see? Touch? Smell? Hear? Taste? Feel? Remarkable experience is all about the details.
Tonight was a special 60 minutes of experience.
My first professional massage was a month ago at a lovely hotel spa in DC. I loved each moment of it. As soon as it was over I was looking for my next fix. Days later livingsocial delivered just that. A curious gal I clicked through and did my research on Daphne, being sure to check out her service offerings and photo gallery. All looked legit. Great deal! Click, buy, book.
Tonight I headed toward JNicolle Salon & Spa after work, full of expectations. Searching for my destination I spotted a barber shop full of black men. (I've always been envious of and intrigued by the barber shop culture. A sacred place that persists, its foundation a simple exchange of service for fee while truly fueled by the opportunity for men to connect, share and nurture their need for community and belonging.) Turns out Miss JNicolle was this barber shop's neighbor. I walked in and was received with a warm welcome and enthusiastic service. The woman at the desk was surrounded by colleagues, all drooling over holiday place settings (via pinterest) on her computer screen. Our chat was kind and quick and ended with an email address exchange: She a pinterest groupie, eagerly waiting for her "yes you can" invite and me with invites to be shared. In jest her colleagues started bidding on the invites she, too, would have "by this time tomorrow".
The walls were bright and painted with amateur strokes. The lobby was saying "I'm trying, but I'm just not sure" with its collection of decorative iron wall elements and overstuffed, underdesigned seating. It had the style of a college hukkah bar, scattered and bright. The coffee table's magazine collection, Jet and Ebony, told me this experience was not designed for me. Nostrils full of hair chemical, I felt welcome.
There is some space between feeling welcome among strangers and being excited about getting naked.
Daphne quickly greeted me with a strong handshake and bright smile and led me to the massage room in the back. My senses were immediately assaulted. It smelled like 1994, when my adolescent trips to the mall too often ended with poster hanging and obnoxious candles ablaze in my bedroom. They either smelled like black cherry Kool-aid or Drakkar Noir. The bright red walls, black sheets and some odd (likely not very washable) sheepskin blanket on the massage table did not scream "get naked and excited about this stranger rubbing you".
One of my strongest smellmories is of seriously oversprayed purple scented Glade air freshener. I was in junior high and experimenting with smoking cigarettes in my mom's bathroom (of course!) while she was at my sister's swim class at the local YMCA. With a toweled door, a single cigarette and a can of Glade I jumped into the deep end of rebellion. The experience tasted atrocious, the pair of toxic smoke and feigned natural odors was enough to make a girl sick. The smell was the taste and the taste the smell.Daphne brought me back to my childhood tonight.
Her weapon of Yankee Candle brought that same question to mind: "Am I smelling or tasting this?". Luckily I have a cold and my tissue-stuffed nose dampened the overload just a smidge. All the while Daphne was kind and cumbersome. Awkward fumblings reminiscent of first make out sessions were peppered throughout, like the strange massaging of my upper cheekbone presumably intended for my temple. Admittedly writing this blog post in my head throughout most of our time together, I never fully relaxed. My thinking was interrupted from time to time by a scratch, dig and even pinch.
I prefer my boyfriends like my massage therapists, with well-trimmed nails.
Everyday I find things, ideas or people to resist or judge, excuses to interrupt my creative and productive flows. Human, I am imperfect. Aware I do my best to recognize these moments and practices and in turn release the resistance. The beautiful thing about my time tonight with Daphne is that there were simply too many things to resist and judge that I was forced to find comfort within ultimate discomfort. I was forced to use my imagination.
My first time in an African American salon I was rubbed down with hot oil by Daphne in the back room.
When are you going back for more!?
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