I’m a masochist, and I know it. My favorite workouts end with quaking muscles and the occasional dry-heave. My ideal weekend activities involve the risk of bodily injury. Call me a wimp, and I’ll endure just about anything to prove you wrong. So when I went to Korea a few months ago, I had to try the V-line facial — a procedure with a reputation for being so painful, it leaves grown women in tears.
Once I strip and wrap a robe around my body, I’m led to the treatment room. Someone escorts me to a corner bed far away from other guests. Maybe they expect me to scream? I lie down and my facialist, who is tiny, introduces herself before warning me again that this will be extremely painful. I can take a break at any time, she adds. Then she tucks me under the sheets and slips my legs into sleeves that pump air in and out, giving them a gentle massage.
Following the stroking comes the pressing, and this is when it begins to get really gnarly. She hits all my pressure points, including a particularly sensitive area near my salivary glands, where she pushes so hard that drool pools into my mouth. I want to suck my spit back in, but I’m too busy forcing breaths in an attempt to modulate my discomfort. A tiny puddle accumulates on my right shoulder.
Unfortunately, my facialist takes my silence as a sign that I can handle even more pressure on the right side. Did you know your body responds to extreme discomfort by sweating profusely from both the scalp and soles of the feet? With every stroke I clench my toes, fingers, and eyes and drench the entire massage table.
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