Yearning for a bit of Christmas in June, it was time for me to cash in a gift certificate Susan had given me for Christmas for a day behind The Red Door, at Elizabeth Arden Salon. It’s such a girly thing to do, and I honestly think that’s why it took me almost 6 months to work up nerve enough to actually do it. I like being pampered as much as the next person, but could I survive all that hetero-estrogen compacted into one afternoon?

I called a couple of weeks in advance to set up my appointments: hot stone massage, facial, and warm cream manicure. That wasn’t as simple as it may sound. I had to make selections from the names of their "specialists." I just threw all the cards up in the air and told them to select for me. (Wow, am I a risk taker, or what?!) All well and good—

I had names to match with services. About three days before the scheduled time there was a message left on my answering machine reminding me of the appointment with a stern warning that IF FOR ANY REASON AT ALL I couldn’t keep the scheduled times, call immediately or no later than 24 hours in advance to reschedule. I’ve gone through elective surgery with less lead time.

Arriving a bit early so as not to set the wrong tone, I was greeted by the cutest gay man who led me to the desk, confirmed my back-to-back appointments, and escorted me to the women’s dressing room. The dressing room looked like any old locker room in a gym. I began to relax. I slipped out of my clothes and into a fluffy bathrobe and pair of slippers. They were the first of many "Red Door" logos I was to confront.

My escort took me to Luba—a sturdy looking Pole who was to give me my massage. During the whole 50-minute session Luba spoke only to ask me three things: 1) "Haf yew effer had ‘Desert Storm’ before?" (attention Marketing Department: maybe you should rethink that name.) 2) "Vat part of body shood I attention to?" (!!) 3) "Too varm?" (??) She then laid a sheet across my back and anchored it down with three hot stones, and put one more in each of my hands. I heard a lot of clacking that sounded a lot like a pool game, felt the sensation of warm oil on my back, and then, voila, let the rubbing begin. It was a rapid alternation of oil and hot stones, all done so smoothly and with no pause that at times it felt as if Luba might be working with three hands. All of this done to a weird assortment of New Age Music, bird chirps and, of course, waves breaking. It was, admittedly, very relaxing.

I slithered off the table into a waiting room where I was asked if I’d like anything. I requested a glass of water and was asked if my preference was for plain, lemon, or cucumber water. What, no Kiwi? There were a lot of women around, but you’d never realize just how many—the tones were so hushed. A whisper at the door, "Mrs. McGrath?" I couldn’t bring myself to react to THAT, but meekly followed Angela down a softly-lit corridor to my private treatment room where I was to have my first-ever facial.

Angela and I didn’t get off to a smashing start when she, in a barely audible voice, asked me, "What do you use to cleanse your face at night?" "EH, soap and water?" Obviously the wrong answer. Stunned silence, followed by very nervous laughter and an, "Oh, my, oh my." I was then subjected to a 5-minute discourse that contained words such as hydration, plant biotins, SP-30 and other scientific terms that slid right by me until she came to the point, "You really, really need that upgrade. It’ll be $25.00 extra." Thanks, but no thanks Angela, just get on with it.

I went into Zen mode and detached from my body so I could watch what was going on. There was a continuous stream of slippery stuff, some applied by hand and some with an eyedropper. Olive oil (plain? Lemon? Cucumber?) lip protection was smoothed on my mouth. At some point Angela started up a steam vaporizer which hovered over my face, followed by her holding a large bottle of pressurized water which was squirted over my face at the same time. It was similar to being caught on the boardwalk in a heavy fog. When it was all over, Angela applied the "essential" sunblock and told me, "You strike me as a no nonsense kind of gal (read: probably a Lesbian), but I really would like to see you back here in a couple of months." Me: "Thanks Angela" (read: as if!!).

My manicure was familiar grounds. The biggest difference was in the surroundings. Instead of perching on a vinyl chair listening to Vietnamese music thumping away, I sank down into an oversized La-Z-Boy and listened to classical Rock.

I dashed home to get a close look in the mirror at the new, improved me, but the same old mug stared back at me out of the mirror. All things considered, it was a different sort of day for me and one that I’ll chalk up to experiencing something new. But here’s a clue: Susan, this Christmas how about a season’s pass to the Mystics?