Gift Certificate

So your mother gives you a holiday present of gift certificate for a spa day of beauty and says, “take care of those pores of yours” and you put it away and forget about it for ten months at which point she asks you about whether you’d gotten a facial yet and you admit that you haven’t and she asks if you’re planning on waiting until the gift certificate expires and you say “no, of course not” although you have no fucking idea where the gift certificate is but at that moment you resolve to go out and buy yourself a new gift certificate rather than admit that you lost the one that your mother gave you. But then you panic because you remember that your mother is a regular at the salon and certainly she has spies who will tell her that you came in with a different gift certificate. You also panic because you suspect that you are coming down with a mild case of paranoid schizophrenia.

Through the miracle of divine intervention, you locate the gift certificate and call to make an appointment for a relaxing day of beauty and the booking agent is soothing and friendly and then she asks for your credit card number and you explain that there is no need for that because you have a gift certificate and she says that there is no way to make an appointment without a credit card and that it is for your own protection because if you forget the gift certificate on the day of your services, they can charge your credit card and then they will reimburse you when you bring in the gift certificate the next day. So you ask why can’t you just pay with a credit card when you come in, if you did in fact forget the gift certificate, and the answer is because you are suddenly Alzheimers-enriched and have not only forgotten the gift certificate but your credit cards and your entire wallet and are just wandering around the city aimlessly and through sheer fortune happen to come into the salon at the exact moment that you have your appointment. Normally, they would have to deny you service, but since they already have your credit card on file, there is no problem whatsoever. You realize that you are incredibly lucky to have these people looking out for you.

You arrive at the salon on a Saturday afternoon, and prepare to relax. While you are waiting, you are asked to fill out a medical condition form, where you have to disclose every anti-psychotic pill that you take. You decide not to divulge this information, in keeping with a recent resolution to lie as much as possible about everything, although in the "other things about you that we should know" you write down that you are claustrophobic and don't like those little sweaters with huge buttons that you see everyone wearing.   

Many estheticians walk around the salon in white coats, as though they are coming in and out of surgery and you say a silent prayer that you don't get a Russian-speaking one. Because, and you hate to sound all prejudiced and self-loathing but Russians are a huge pain in the ass and as soon as they hear your name, they ask if you speak Russian and if you confess that you do, they will regale you with many questions, the gist of which seems to come down to, "how come you can afford to come here and I have to scrub your feet, I have two PhDs from University of Odessa, you putrid whore."  You remember the one and only time that you were getting at pedicure at a salon at Saks and a trophy wife was getting a manicure next to you and she had the nerve to tell her Russian manicurist, "I just don't know anymore. I used to have such clear goals, but now I'm not sure whether to get emeralds for Christmas or a fur," and the manicurist said, "Emeralds for Christmas and fur because you deserve to be warm," and the trophy squealed with the same enthusiasm that will greet the end of terrorism and the deep recession, if they happen on the same day.  Then when trophy got up, the manicurist said to her co-manicurists, in Russian, "check out this one, girls."

You look around the waiting lounge and note with satisfaction that no one seems to be suffering from anorexia.  

Then you hear your name called.
"Marinka? I am Russian Olga.  Time for your facial."

To be continued.  Maybe.