"Your body is crying out for self-care," said the masseuse after my hour-long 'relaxation massage'. My shoulders, which were knot-free seconds ago, tensed as she wrote down her number, saying that two sessions a month, at £75 an hour, should do it. To shake off the slimy feeling of that interaction, I booked a facial a few weeks later. It went similarly: "You're so sensitised," the £195-an-hour aesthetician exclaimed. She recommended I book a course of facials, which together cost more than my monthly rent.
It's a privilege and part of my job to test treatments, which I otherwise couldn't afford. The majority of practitioners I see are incredibly skilled (and emotionally intelligent to boot), but I have been noticing the above phenomenon more and more, especially since turning 30. Unsolicited, some will suggest additional, pricey, and sometimes invasive treatments for areas I've never mentioned. It stings: afterwards, I will catch myself millimetres from my mirror, calmly weighing the pros and cons of, say, filling my tear troughs.
