Linda Kennedy
London. A spa treat at the Ham Yard Hotel, the city’s latest and hottest, just north of Piccadilly. Its spa appeared in the ‘Ten Best Spas in London’ so thither my sister and I went for a birthday treat. Spas are like tourist destinations for women. Westminster Abbey for the flabby. Madame Tussauds for bods.
The hotel lobby was chic and witty. We took the lift to the spa, were welcomed and given apple and ginger juice. We were then handed huge white towelling robes of such texture and thickness it was like wearing a polar bear costume. Was there a Disney character, Spa Bear? Was it in Frozen? But there was no instruction about what should be worn underneath.
The biggest dilemma of any spa situation is the decision about what you strip down to. Does all underwear remain? Just the bottom? Nothing at all, or is that loose?
A sororal pow-wow agreed upon the embarrassment involved in the extent of disrobing. The outcome of this brief summit on briefs was to remove everything but our knickers. We strode forth from the changing area, pleased not to trip on the hem of our towelling gowns as they would surely have been yanked open, revealing the choices we had made.
Carefully, we manoevered our heavy costumes to one of the treatment rooms, Spa Bears hunting for pampering.
We had opted to be massaged and facialed on neighbourings beds, in what was known as the ‘Couples Room’. (It was a name, I felt, which could have been adapted on a per booking basis. For us, ‘The Girls’ Day Out Treat’ room.)
Checklist time. The questions posed by beauty staff used to relate to allergies, heart conditions and vascular issues. No more. The modern spa census pokes more into your vanity than your varicose veins. ‘Have you ever had Botox or fillers?’ ‘Have you ever had a chemical peel?’ We denied everything.
My sister was getting a facial, I was having a massage. I was advised there would be a ‘full body component plus reflexology, and a head massage to finish the treatment’. The friendly masseuse handed me a small packet and then she, and the facialist, withdrew to allow us to get ready.
I opened the packet, assuming it was something to hold my hair during the massage, to be removed during the head massage. Inside there was a strip of paper with two strings on either side. A paper ponytail tie? Or a make-up band to push hair back?
I sought to twist the scrap of mysterious paper into my hair. An experimental high ponytail fell out. A messy bun disintegrated. I twanged it towards my sister. ‘Any ideas?’ Defeated, I just left it on the table.
A gentle knock. The masseuse and facialist came back into the room.
My masseuse moved the towel over my lower half, preparing for a leg and an appropriate amount of gluteus maximus to be exposed.
‘Oh’ she commented, ‘you didn’t use them.’
I was already facedown on the massage bed but peered round. She was staring at my knickers, then she looked over at the paper conundrum on the table.
Twenty seconds later, she whispered ‘relax’ into my ear. I was rigid. I had narrowly avoided wearing a paper thong on my head.
Afterwards, sipping water, I help up the thong. It was obvious now. But was I the only one who’d misunderstood which buns this was for? I considered a selfie with the pants twisted round a chignon in my hair. Just to see who else picked up on hashtag #knickerscrunchie
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