The day wasn’t exactly off to a relaxing start when I realized my daughter and I were facing each other, arms crossed in exactly the same position, feet planted firmly. My shoes are NOT on the wrong feet, she insisted, and I DON’T need a coat. Fine. Wrong-shoe-footed and bare-armed we went into the 40-degree early March air. A lovely day for the spa, with the totally chill mindset to match.
We were headed to Spa Castle, the famous compound in College Point, Queens, where a new “generational serenity” package awaited. The invitation sounded a bit like preparation for retirement, but with the assurance that even my four-year-old would enjoy the offerings, we buckled up and headed up the Jackie Robinson Parkway to the unassuming back street where the massive cobalt-and-white edifice stands.
Truth be told, I had been waiting for this moment for, oh, about a decade. You see, I am the mother of three wonderful boys who have never expressed a single preference when it comes to soap or other bath products, and who don’t mind it if I test their cleanliness by sniffing the backs of their necks. (Who else is going to do it? They seem to appreciate—at least for now—my interest.) So when my fourth child was a girl, there were thrills and surprise, and there was also, hovering in the far-off distance, the idea that one day we would get our nails done together.
That day came sooner than expected. Perhaps because she was bouncing around a house filled with testosterone, my daughter was all about tiaras and unicorns and tutus and “pink is my favorite color” just about as soon as she could pronounce any of those words. She started coming with me to the nail salon, and she freaking loved it. There were not that many spaces for her that are suffused (despite the not-insignificant number of male clientele—this is Brooklyn!) with girly vibes, and she was a sponge for them, batting her eyelashes at the ladies wielding their nail files and squinting hard at the difference between Essie’s Ballet Slippers and Mademoiselle.
My local mega-spa is not the only institution that has cottoned on to this kind of interest. At Moar Gut, a chic-looking place in Salzburg, Austria, you can fine-tune your baby’s early development with baby yoga, baby massage, and something called “baby floating” that looks just as adorable as it sounds. At the Royal Champagne spa in Champillon, France, you can book a treatment for your six-year-old crafted by Bonpoint: “Once upon a time,” the spa menu reads, “Because it’s never too early to introduce beauty and wellbeing to every one of us.” The Cheval Blanc spa at the St. Bart’s outpost offers a suite of “my first Guerlain” skin-care experiences.
I couldn’t quite swing a trip to the Caribbean on a random Sunday, so when the Spa Castle rep reassured me that four was not (as I suspected) just a tad too young for what they had in mind, I didn’t take much convincing. At the spa itself, it was a slightly different story. “Our youngest client ever!” the receptionist exclaimed, peering over the counter at my tow-headed toddler. We followed her down a corridor, dimly lit by faux candles and bordered by slim gulleys filled with obsidian stones—not, I had to quickly assure my daughter, for picking up and putting in her pockets. Two massage tables awaited us, and my daughter was immediately game for the challenge of scaling hers—a playground inside! A boost, several towels propped around her head, and she was ready for her facial. “What do you use to cleanse…” the technician began before trailing off with the realization that this girl’s face had only ever met a washcloth, and she wasn’t going to have much to say when it came to her nonexistent skin-care routine.
