I might be an esthetician’s worst nightmare. Not because of what’s on the surface—aside from some acne, I have been relatively lucky in the skin department—but because of the worry-powered Rube Goldberg machine that is my mind.
All my life, I’ve been told I have sensitive skin. The clues were there: I have a face full of freckles and a fair, near-translucent complexion prone to sunburn and redness. As a result, I have long been hesitant to do much to my face, and it’s turned me into a bit of a skin-care Luddite.
For example, I have used the same drugstore face wash since I was a tween (Neutrogena Deep Clean, in case you’re wondering). Burned (literally) by one too many sleepover face masks, I now patch test every potential new product on my wrist. I don’t moisturize as much as I should—and when I do, it’s often my mom’s iconic-to-me blue-tin Nivea Creme. I may be in my 20s, but I already feel woefully uninformed about retinol. I wear minimal makeup and follow the doctrine my mom taught me: Wear sunscreen, wash your face, and try not to touch it throughout the day. Aside from that, for years, my skin-care approach has basically been to cross my fingers and hope for the best.
So when I joined Vogue late last year, I had a confession to make to my new colleagues on the beauty team: I had never gotten a facial before. Thus the idea was born, first as sort of a joke and then as reality: I would give it a try and write about the experience (a sweet assignment, indeed).
I reached out to Rescue Spa in downtown New York City on the recommendation of friends and beauty editors alike, and their team set me up with a Danucera Sculpt & Lift facial, which combines a five-step routine and “patented nano-, micro-, and pico-current technology.” I imagined green clay on my face and cucumber slices on my eyelids but was told the real thing could be less movie montage, more war on pores.
I opted for an extraction-free facial for my first go-around. For the uninitiated, extractions are basically a common part of facials in which the practitioner removes the gunk from your clogged pores, either manually or with tools. Even as a skin-care rookie, I had heard stories of extractions that give new meaning to that old adage “beauty is pain.” I thought I’d wade into the water first.
Leading up to the appointment, I was nervous and excited. I had questions: What do you wear to a facial? (I learned that it doesn’t really matter; you’ll likely be taking off your shirt and slipping on a towel so that your face and shoulders are exposed. This half nudity was a bit of a surprise, but ultimately best for comfort and a nice mini shoulder massage). Can you wear contact lenses? (Not recommended, apparently because there’s a risk of cleansers, creams, and oils sticking to your lenses and the steam and water trapping them there, leading to potential infections.)
At a party the night before, I polled my friends for advice. They said to hydrate, so I switched from wine to water. They said it’s normal for your face to be red afterward. And they said next time I should bring them with me.
When it came time, I stepped into the sleek ground-level spa on East 19th Street, feeling like I had found a glamorous secret hideout among the Union Square chaos, a fancy C.O. Bigelow–type pharmacy boutique-slash-spa. I was offered a beverage and taken back to a treatment room, where my very kind and patient esthetician asked about my allergies and medications, and I regaled her with my sensitive-skin spiel.
