Spas are supposed to be relaxing. You pad around in a regulation robe and too-big slippers. Everything is beautifully soft, crisply white, low lit. There are loungers for flopping and glasses of tea —pale yellow and herbal, not builder’s. Towels are everywhere.
It’s rehydrating, restful, rejuvenating. Music tinkles in the background; occasionally a cymbal resounds. The treatment list has huge promise. You will emerge looking glorious or at least a shinier — hopefully slimmer — version of yourself. Medical spas go further still. Your liver will be grateful, your skin more youthful, your lumps and bumps smoothed, your outlook revolutionised.
Ten years ago, spas were thought to be a bit peculiar. Today, they are widely accepted as places of wellbeing worship where women gather to bond and beautify — then ruin it all in the evening with a giant glass of wine. A spa is a treat. Or is it?
Over dinner with two girlfriends last week, we came to the conclusion that spas — most especially spa treatments — are just embarrassing, particularly for we British who don’t always cope well with communal nakedness and are thrown by paper pants.
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