Several years ago, my wonderful brother-in-law gifted my mother, sister and I a day of pampering at a local salon on the north side of Houston.  It included a facial, massage and pedicure.  Sadly, I’d never experienced two of the three.  Pedicures were a staple in my life.  I’d come to know and love them while living in New York City, as it was one of the few inexpensive perks afforded a poor Advertising employee…that and pizza by the slice.  But facials and massages, never.  They were (I thought) well out of my price range, seemingly too self-indulgent, and, because I was (and admittedly still am) a bit of an odd bird, the thought of lying on a table half naked caused me great stress and the possibility of a major panic attack versus the intended total relaxation.

So, as you might suspect, the morning before the big day at the salon, I was a mess.  It was Saturday, but I woke before the alarm.  I needed preparation time.  Just as others clean house prior to the maid’s arrival, I scrubbed my body from stem to stern.  Outside of the head, arms and face, every last inch of my person was clean shaven.  Tags were pulled from a beautiful, matching set of bra and panties, and I carefully applied a “natural” coat of makeup in an effort to appear as if “yes, this is how I look when I roll out of bed”.  A thousand scenarios ran through my brain as we entered the salon’s parking lot…worst case scenarios, of course.  Would they examine my skin and gasp in horror?  While massaging me, fully exposed and wearing only my birthday suit, would I be scolded for the little pot belly or my blurred “yin and yang” tattoo (ironic, I know).

As if in another dimension, I could faintly hear my mother and sister giddily conversating about how excited they were to finally enjoy some “me time”.  I considered leaping from the car and racing home.  But the thought of ruining their moment stressed me out further.  I unsuccessfully practiced some breathing techniques I’d seen earlier on the weekend edition of the Today show, opened the car door, and walked, in a terrified haze into the bustling salon.

“Hello, ladies!” a slight woman behind a massive oak desk exclaimed.  “Do you have an appointment with us today?”

I tried to respond, but had lost the ability to speak.

My sister took over.  “Yes, we have ten-o-clock appointments.  We each have certificates for a spa day.”

“Well, lucky you!” the young girl responded.  “You must be Carolyn, Kim and Nikki!”

I nodded, relieved that at least my body was still functioning.

“Follow me,” she said.  “We’ll get you started.”  She turned my way.  “Are you Nikki?”

I once again nodded.

“Great!  You’ll go in for your facial first with our Aesthetician, Nancy!  You’re just going to love it!”

I had a pool of saliva in my mouth, but was unable to swallow.

“Just head to the bathroom over there,” she pointed.  “Strip down - you can leave on your undies - and wrap yourself up in one of the provided towels!  Nancy is in Room 1.  Enjoy!”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

I attempted to smile at my family and pleaded with my body to successfully walk me to the electric chair…I mean, bathroom.  I opened the door, turned on the light (so bright…why so bright) and proceeded to strip down to my lacy, never before worn underwear.  I draped my clothing on the provided hangers, wrapped what seemed like a dish towel around my shivering (but very smooth) torso, unlocked the door, and made a bee-line to Room 1.

I knocked.

“C’mon in!”

It was a friendly enough voice.

I slowly opened the door and entered a dimly lit room with flickering candlelight and soft music.

“Hi, Nikki.”  She was so calm.  “I’m just finishing setting up.  Would you like something to drink?”

Is this woman hitting on me?

“No, thanks,” I squeaked.  She appeared not to notice the fear in my voice.

I sat in a low, comfortable chair as Nancy placed what looked to be a large water bubble at the top of the massage table.

Oh, God.

“Ok, all ready,” she said.  “Just lay here…you can keep on your towel.”

Thank you, Jesus.

“Just make sure you lay your shoulders and upper back on the warm water pillow.”

I fumbled about for a bit, sloshing the water from side to side, before finally positioning myself, stiff as a board on the surprisingly comfortable table.  It was adorned, much like a 5-star resort-style bed (i.e. Shutters in SoCal), in piles of white linens.  Nancy placed a pillow under my knees and covered me with more linens.  She brushed my hair back, much like my Momma used to do, and placed her hands on my face.

“First time?” she asked.

“Can you tell?” I replied.  We both giggled.

“It’s a breeze,” she teased.  “Just sit back and let me do the work.  You can even sleep if you like.”

Yeah, right.

“Just so you know,” she said.  “I don’t speak once we get started.  It’s just a policy of mine.”

Relief poured from my body.  I could literally feel myself sinking further into the soft sheets.  No longer did I have to carry the stress of “what the hell do we talk about”.  I had, as you might imagine, a long list of topics in my head in case speaking was required - ranging from my love of animals, to my lack of love life, to the perils of greenhouse gases.

“Do you have any animals?” I couldn’t help myself.  The silence was, well, unexpected.

“Oh, yes…I love animals,” she said.

Good sign.

“Ok, time to get started.  Try to relax, Nikki.  And no talking,” she smiled.

I must admit, the first few minutes were a bit odd.  Most women are nurturing.  It can be tough to calm down and be nurtured.  And let’s face it, this was a new and foreign situation.  The unknown can be a bit scary, but I felt much better when I saw a trash receptacle nearby.  If I needed to hurl, I wouldn’t mess up these pretty sheets. 

“Ok, we’re just about finished.”

Huh?

“You fell asleep, sweetie.”

“I did?  I DID!!!  That’s amazing!”

And it was.  Nancy had achieved the unachievable.  I’m still convinced she’s not human.  I mean, I can’t sleep on a 15-hour flight, not even for a second.  But Nancy, with her strong, but gentle, hands had actually relaxed me to the point of slumber.  The thing is, this was no ordinary facial, I know that now.  It was a dream.  There were sweet (but not too strong-smelling) potions and lotions, hot towels, gentle exfoliants…in the end, my face felt like the quintessential baby’s butt…really.  But that was just the beginning.  Remember that warm water pillow I was so weary of?  It had become my best friend, it’s possible I fell in love with it.  Why?  Because it allowed Nancy, while I was still lying face-up, to massage my back - her hands sliding effortlessly between the pillow and my shoulders and backside.  She then massaged my arms, legs AND FEET!  Yes, you heard me right.  Somewhere in this process, I dozed off.  It was that good.  When I woke, I wondered….was this the facial AND massage?

I found out later that this was not the massage.  It was simply Nancy’s facial.  The massage, it turned out, was handled by a babbling teenager with little experience.  She was what I had feared.  But because my time with Nancy had been so incredibly relaxing, I didn’t care.

An hour later, as my mother and I received side-by-side pedicures, we cooed about our dream facial.  We kept glancing at Room 1, poorly hiding our jealously that Kim was, at that very moment, receiving the magic treatment.  When my sister later emerged, fresh-faced and sleepy-eyed, the three of us floated back to the car, relaxed and revived, and ready to conquer the world.

It would be three years before my next facial with Nancy.  Times had been tough, and, in my mind, facials were a luxury I could not afford.  Little did I know, it was exactly what I needed.  Had I visited Nancy from time to time, some of the obstacles sent my way might not have seemed so insurmountable.  Or, at the least, I might have handled them with a bit more patience.  And, ironically, Nancy was, and is, quite affordable.

For my mother’s birthday last October, my father bought her a year’s worth (of monthly) facials.  He later called Nancy to tell her that in all the gifts he’d bought his wife - from jewelry to clothing and beyond - he’d never seen her squeal quite as loudly as when he presented her with that year’s worth of pampering.  Nancy told me this story when I went to see her last week.  I was not surprised.  And, for a moment, I dreamed of receiving my own free year of facials.  Did you hear that, Daddy?  Daddy?

I decided to return to Nancy for many reasons.  One was my Mom’s constant pontificating about her monthly visits.  Another was the special she was extending through March.  A freaking hour-and-a-half slice of heaven for $75.  I could have chosen an hour for even less.  But it’d been three years, and my face was showing it.  Plus, it was $75!  I found a way to work it out.  And it was even better than I remembered.

Nancy is now on her own in a quaint little commercial condo community near Willowbrook Mall.  The atmosphere is calm and beautiful and, well, perfect.  I rarely, if ever, highlight a business, but this blog is about us.  What makes us the same.  What makes us laugh.  And what makes us happy.  Well, Nancy at Perfecting Skin Care makes me happy.  And so it’s only fair that you know of her, too.

Last weekend, I was planning on attending a friend’s shindig (a “Passion Party”, aka - a party with a Mary Kay-like sales pitch of sex toys).  Nancy had offered up a door prize to be handed out at the party, but at the last minute, I had to cancel.  So now I have this Perfecting Skin Care certificate burning a hole in my purse.  It is…drumroll…a certificate for a NINETY MINUTE FACIAL/MASSAGE!  In other words, it is a certificate to heaven.

This is what I was thinking.  Times are a little tough.  People are stressed out.  Some more than others.  And they need a break.  So, I am giving this certificate away to one lucky reader.  For a chance to receive it, all you have to do is this…send me in the reason why you or a dear friend or loved one deserves some “me time”.  Unfortunately, I only have one, so I will only be able to choose one reader.  If I had more, I would give them all away…but I don’t.  Think about who would most benefit from this and tell me why.  And for my guy readers, remember Valentine’s Day is just around the corner…I’m just sayin’…

***Sidenote, for those who do not receive the certificate, Nancy’s special runs through March.  She even had a special on microdermabrasion when I was there - TEN FREAKIN’ DOLLARS - so you might check into that as well.  Her name is Nancy Hetzel (Perfecting Skin Care) and her numbers are:  (W) 281-586-8838 and (C) 713-557-5059.

Okay, folks - the comment section is open!  Send me the reason why you, your husband, wife, sister, mother, brother, aunt, teacher, butcher, favorite Passion Party salesperson, etc. should receive this well-deserved gift.  I’m listening…

Why is it the expensive stuff always runs out first?  That “no sulfate” shampoo and conditioner…the kind I use to prevent “damaged ends” and provide “deep conditioning”, while avoiding harsh chemicals.  Or the several items in my chosen skincare line that seem to cost the most.  Let’s focus on this.  Skincare.  I do my best to use products that not only prove to achieve what they claim (anti-aging qualities, hydration, etc.), but also products that use mostly natural ingredients.  About 6-8 months ago, I investigated some of these natural skincare lines at Whole Foods.  My previous skincare line (available only at Sephora) had produced less than desirable results at a much-too-expensive price, so the move to something new was a no-brainer.  Okay, so, Whole Foods.  After trying out some tester kits for a couple of weeks, I decided on the slightly-less-expensive-than-Sephora line called MyChelle.  Or so I thought it was less expensive.  It is a good product, don’t get me wrong, but the few items in the skincare routine which cost the most - namely the serum and day and night moisturizers - do not last the purported 8-10 weeks (or whatever the hell it was).  I’m no face cream hog, but this stuff lasts 4 weeks…tops.  And the day moisturizer alone (a.k.a. Supreme Polypeptide Cream) is close to $70…uh uh…no more. 

If you read my last post, you know my dwindling bank account can’t handle this kind of excess.  Odds are, yours can’t either.  So, I’m counting on you, my fabulous readers, to help a girl out.  Can I get quality skincare products without considering food stamps?  Do I have to throw out the idea of “all natural” in an effort to keep the rights to my first-born child?  Are these overpriced products mainly a marketing ploy that this marketing professional has bought into?

Please…pass on your economical beauty secrets.  And I beg that you pass them on in detail.  Skincare lines are complex and loaded with dozens of products.  Which online or drugstore brands are just as effective as the pricey concoctions?  And what are the essential products to use in a daily (and nightly) regimen?  I’m currently using a gentle cleanser (I’m sensitive ladies :)), a toner, some sort of serum, sometimes an eye cream and a moisturizer.  I’d like to stick with a similar (or easier) regimen….but I’m open to any and all suggestions.  I did pose this question on Facebook (a.k.a. “Crackbook”) as well, and got some good suggestions. Oil of Olay and Neutrogena were some…but I didn’t get details on exact products in these lines.

I could be wrong, but I’m guessing the $70 moisturizer and some of those that are much less expensive, have very similar results.  Hydration and sleep generally make the biggest difference for me, but a good skincare line is important for prevention purposes.  I just don’t want to take out a second mortgage on my (nonexistent) home to pay for it.

Okay…so offer it up, gals!  Let me know whatcha got…and let’s kick this bastard economy in its sensitive area.  And, hey…if you have other simple tips for saving money - from groceries to clothing to printer ink cartridges and coupons - pass ‘em on!  Let’s help each other out…we can’t forego keeping ourselves fabulous…but we can do it for less!

“Can you be in love with an inanimate object?” I asked.

“In love with said object? Or just love it?” imaginary friend replied.

“In love. Like giddy. Lovesick. I miss them when I’m away.”

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, can you procreate with this thing?”

“God, I wish I could. We need more of them in the world.”

“Alright, enough of the elusive banter. What the hell is it?” (Even imaginary friends lose their patience).

And so I describe them. In all their full, beautiful glory. The perfect height…not too high, not too low. The way they hug (but not too tightly) my chicken calves. The soft, supple skin…the perfect shade of dark bronze. The subtle curves, dressy, but not too. Sexy, but in a naive, teasing manner. Engaging and alluring to men and women alike. They are, quite possibly, the most perfect pair of boots ever created. And they are mine. In brown suede…and black (I’m no dummy).

First, let me thank the Academy. And then Michael Kors for his expert design insight and ability to sell in bulk to DSW (so that I can afford said perfect foot ornamentation).

“I’m intrigued. Can I see them? I must see them,” imaginary friend coos.

“I can’t.”

“What?  Why?”

“I’m afraid you’ll go out and buy them. And I can’t have that.”

“Because…”

“Because last weekend…when I wore the boots with my new cute knit dress…”

“That is a cute dress. Where’d you get that?” she interrupts.

“Not telling. So, as I was saying…last weekend, when I wore the boots, I was told - by a married man…a respectable one…one who doesn’t cheat…”

“Does that exist?”

“Quit interrupting. Yes, they do exist. And he told me that I needed to walk away. That the combo of the knit dress and the amazing boots was ‘dangerous’.”

“Oooooh!”

“Uh huh.  Dangerous.  Because they’re so…well, perfect.  I saw people staring at them. A big guy…looked like an oafy football player - you know, the kind who wouldn’t know fashion from fiddle playing?”

“Yeah, I know him. I think I used to date him.”

“Well, he yelled across a patio full of people.”

“What’d he say? Did he wanna know the score of the Texas game?”

“No, this was Friday night.”

“Oh.”

“He said, ‘Hey - kick ass boots!’…and he was with a table of girls. And they started ogling them, too. There were high-pitched squeals involved.”

“And now you don’t want anyone else to have these magic boots…because you’re drunk on their power.”

“Yes.”

“You would be an awful monarch.”

“I know. I like the attention too much. I’d come to expect it. Maybe even demand it.”

“But you’re a kind person. You’re an amazing friend. You’ve always put others before yourself.”

“I’m not showing you the boots.”

“Bitch.”

“Yes.  Now, where did I put that damn crown?”

In many ways, I am my father’s daughter. The dry sense of humor, the slightly hooked nose, and the tendency, in certain areas of my life, to be a ‘creature of habit’. I balance that last trait out with a tendency, as well, to be a ridiculous dreamer, open and searching for new experiences. As most of us are, I am a dichotomy…and in the areas where my ‘creature of habit’ psychoses poke out their little heads, it’s possible I can be a bit, well, rigid. Don’t judge. It is for good reason.

For example, today I went to get a much-needed pedicure (a luxury I’ve become addicted to since my days in NYC). I decided, before going in, that this time, I was going to mix things up. Step away from my nail polish rigidity. Try to inject a little bit of the dreamer into an area I’ve kept it hidden. And so I scanned the rows and rows of choices. My eyes continued to move past my old favorite - a color the perfect mix of red and pink, with a dash of sparkly orange. But I held strong, and finally settled on a brighter orange-red. After the ‘nail specialist’ pried if from my nervous hands, I sat back to enjoy the calf massage and read about the details of Jennifer Garner’s pregnancy.

Now I’m home, and, I gotta be honest. I’m not liking the color. It doesn’t have the same sheen. It won’t go as well with my blue dress.  And I want to wrap my own nuckles for doubting my instincts.  Forgive me, my perfect mix of red, pink and orange. You will adorn me again in approximately three weeks. I apologize for my infidelity…I was drunk.

I’m off to view more Olympics. The women’s (or severely growth-stunted girl’s) gymnastic team is going for the gold, and I must cheer them on.  It’s gonna be a nail-biter.  A perfectly manicured nail-biter.