{"id":88561,"date":"2015-08-07T12:30:59","date_gmt":"2015-08-07T16:30:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=88561"},"modified":"2015-08-07T13:06:51","modified_gmt":"2015-08-07T17:06:51","slug":"beautiful-image","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/08\/07\/beautiful-image\/","title":{"rendered":"Beautiful Image"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"radioradw\"<\/a>

From a 1918 ad for Radior, a face cream containing radium.<\/p><\/div>\n

If I hate anything that smacks of \u201cself-care\u201d\u2014and I do\u2014I come by this antipathy honestly. I don\u2019t just mean my mother\u2019s disdain, bordering on pathological, for any sort of pampering. I\u2019ve come to see this trait of hers as equal parts puritanism, ingrained frugality, and self-loathing, and as such have attempted to curb any similar tendencies in myself. When I am not being honest, I tell myself to be like the French: regarding beauty maintenance as a regular, unselfconscious part of a routine, like going to the dentist. Of course, I\u2019m not French, and in any case it\u2019s hard to tell yourself you\u2019re undergoing anything medically essential when you\u2019re listening to a woodwind version of \u201cBringing in the Sheaves.\u201d<\/p>\n

I have gotten online coupons for services with relaxing names and cheeky names and traveled by subway to far-away banyas. I have navigated palatial Mitteleuropean bathhouses and stripped in hammam. I\u2019ve been coaxed into taking shuttles to all-day Korean day spas and tromped around in smocks. I hated every moment of it\u2014actively hated it. It\u2019s not a guilty pleasure. It\u2019s just guilty. <\/p>\n

The town where I lived as a teenager had one small spa called Beautiful Image, located between a particularly dreary florist who seemed to deal exclusively in funerals and a mysteriously long-lived magic shop. I never patronized the neighboring businesses, but I\u2019d made a trip down the side-street specifically to gaze at the blow-up pictures that bedecked the windows: faded photos of women with terry turbans on their heads, green paste on their faces, and smooth stones over their eyes. As a small child, I\u2019d been horrified. And when I asked my mother about them, she said it was something silly, self-indulgent women did to spend money.<\/p>\n

Naturally, I was intrigued. I don\u2019t think I really cared about the results. I didn\u2019t think anything I did would transform me into someone beautiful, or adult. I did not wear makeup; I hardly cared about clothes. But the project combined two things dear to the teen heart: rebellion and self-criticism. In this case, I\u2019d have the added whammy of ingrained contempt for my extravagant behavior, as well as my physical flaws! And so, one day, I grabbed a wad of babysitting money and took myself to Beautiful Image. The woman who greeted me\u2014her name turned out to be Sue\u2014asked me what I wanted done. I realized I had no idea.<\/p>\n

\u201cA facial?\u201d she suggested. I said yes, a facial.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour eyebrows are very thick, and short,\u201d she said critically. I was duly shamed. We would do my eyebrows, too.<\/p>\n

Not far into the facial, Sue announced that she had diarrhea and abruptly left the room. The bathroom was right next door. This happened several times in the course of the procedure.<\/p>\n

The lights were so bright that she had to place sun-bed goggles over my eyes so I\u2019d stop twitching and flinching. When she put the mask on me, she left the room for such a long time that I began to worry she\u2019d forgotten me\u2014but maybe she was just in the bathroom again.<\/p>\n

The price seemed astronomical. In fact, I had to jump on my bike and get more money out of the desk drawer where I kept my cash. In the course of which, my mother saw my angry red brow crowned with infinitesimal wisps of hair, like a poorly painted china doll, and the jig was well and truly up.<\/p>\n

After that, I visited Beautiful Image regularly. But now, I made sure to go when I\u2019d have time to let my skin calm down, and even bought a drugstore powder to cover any redness, which gave me the air of a mummified corpse. There was never anyone else there. I didn\u2019t mention these visits to any of my friends, as I wished them to believe I was above such superficialities. I got manicures and pedicures and waxes; on one occasion, I had a very painful and expensive peel. I knew that Sue\u2014unlike the proprietor of the local lingerie store, which specialized in bras for women who\u2019d had mastectomies\u2014wouldn\u2019t say anything to my mom.<\/p>\n

Each visit was worse than the last. I hated everything about it but the clandestine thrill; the dingy room, the painful treatments, the magic shop, the memory of the diarrhea incident. I observed no change in my skin; certainly at that age no one was privy to anything that happened below the neck. After reading an article in a women\u2019s magazine, I had mustered all my will to ask her to \u201cjust clean up\u201d my brows.<\/p>\n

I continued to visit Sue into college, whenever I came home on vacation. I never made an appointment. I\u2019d make up some errand\u2014the library, the stationery store\u2014and walk in off the street. It was always unpleasant. Somehow, it did not occur to me to visit any such establishments while I was away from home, although I went to college in a big city presumably filled with affordable and competent aestheticians. Maybe I would have liked one of them.<\/p>\n

But don\u2019t you see? That wasn\u2019t the point; that isn\u2019t the point. Sue\u2019s shop has closed. Nothing has ever touched the initial exhilaration of those strange, early visits, although in the grand tradition I keep trying. For some of us the real self-indulgence is something very different to what my mother imagined.<\/p>\n

Sadie Stein is contributing editor of <\/em>The Paris Review, and the <\/em>Daily\u2019s correspondent.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

If I hate anything that smacks of \u201cself-care\u201d\u2014and I do\u2014I come by this antipathy honestly. I don\u2019t just mean my mother\u2019s disdain, bordering on pathological, for any sort of pampering. I\u2019ve come to see this trait of hers as equal parts puritanism, ingrained frugality, and self-loathing, and as such have attempted to curb any similar […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":178,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13115],"tags":[4064,19063,19062,5820,19061,13623,19064,19065,19066,19030,19027],"class_list":["post-88561","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-our-daily-correspondent","tag-adolescence","tag-aestheticians","tag-beautiful-image","tag-beauty","tag-facials","tag-growing-up","tag-puritanism","tag-self-care","tag-self-denial","tag-spa-treatments","tag-spas"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nBeautiful Image, or, Adolescence at the Spa<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"August 7, 2015 \u2013 If I hate anything that smacks of \u201cself-care\u201d\u2014and I do\u2014I come by this antipathy honestly. 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