A treat at the retreat
I was looking to get away from the stresses of the global pandemic. A 14-day yoga retreat sounded perfect. Even better, it was in Jamaica. Better yet, the web page promised a facial. No additional convincing needed. I booked my stay.
On my third day at the retreat, the yogi confirmed my facial appointment. A tingle of anticipation raised my goosebumps. Atalia, the tall Jamaican house-mother, would be my uncertified esthetician. She mixed up a secret potion of old-fashioned rolled oats (not instant), coconut oil, honey, along with a few pinches of Jamaican seasonings in a large green plastic bowl. She blended the mixture with the power of a commercial KitchenAid mixer at high speed. Atalia hit her large wooden spatula against the side of the bowel like a mama ringing the dinner bell. I came running like a hungry child ready for supper.
The application
Atalia asked me to get comfortable on the uncomfortable Adirondack chair. I closed my eyes and dreamt about gentle hands massaging my face while scents of lavender danced around the patio and into my nasal passages. A cold plop of the concoction fell onto my face, feeling more like a bird dropped a load than an actual facial. The batter was thick, coarse and chunky. Alitalia used a popsicle stick to smear the mixture over my face. She looked like a stonemason, spreading the organic grout in every crack and crevice on my face. Oats were flapping in my nostrils with each inhalation. I tried to exhale with force in hopes that these gatekeepers would fly away. No luck.
The hardening
She moved to my décolletage. The last remnants were scraped out of the bowl and spread onto the gentle skin below my neck. She pulled this skin like a candy maker stretching taffy over cool marble. My face began to harden like a kindergarten paper mache project. “Lay there and relax for a while,” she said. She couldn’t see the fear in my eyes, because they were glued shut.
The feeding
I felt the warmth of the kittens circling my leg like baby sharks eyeing their prey. One pounced on my lap like it was dropped from the roof and began to scale my body, using its claws to hang on. He was perched on my left bosom and started nibbling my facial. Lick, lick, bite. “Ouch!” His hungry brother sat on the other bosom and licked behind my ear. Cats are not gentle when eating. Paws over my shoulder, nibbling and purring, providing a feline massage. Two cats feasting on my face. This was not in the brochure.
The removal
My face felt like cement curing on a sidewalk. It was difficult to breathe, and the mixture sealed my lips tight. Atalia stepped to my side, shooed the cats, tossed me a dry washcloth, and told me to wash it off.
“By myself?” I wondered. No stars for you I muttered under my breath. I started picking the facial off of my own face. My eyes watered as thick chunks of mixture fell off like a crumbling cornice after an earthquake. My head rested on the bottom of the dirty sink as water trickled through my hair and into my ears. I twisted my neck awkwardly so the water would weaken the resistant remnants behind my ears. The water rose in the sink as the facial sentiment clogged the drain and the batter re-entered my nostrils. The last of the treatment circled the drain, taking all of my relaxation along with it.
