‘Tell it to me straight, Doc, what’s the score?’
‘It’s your wood, mate. It’s well outta whack!’
‘Damn, I knew it had to be one of the five Chinese elements. Is it because I said my favourite colours were green and black and that I like mornings?’
‘Pretty much, dog; but you’ll be pleased to learn there is a cure: lavender and plenty of camomile.’
‘Phew! Well, quick man. Dab some on my hand, fast. I can feel a chi attack coming on – and would it kill you to bring some more date tea?’
In my dream world everything would be this easy. Masseurs would have the lively social skills of mechanics and everything would be quick and dirty.
As a man who has rarely uttered the syllable ‘spa’, and on the Chi questionnaire could muster little more response than ‘soap’ when asked to describe his daily cleansing ritual, I approach my Chi Vitality Facial with some trepidation. It’s not that I’m averse to the occasional bit of pampering (some call it a shower), but I’m well aware that I neglect myself. Normally, I’m happy to wield the defence of manhood, but I know that it’s just plain laziness. So how do I come to find myself staring face-down at a bowl of floating petals whilst a slender Nepalese man treats my shoulders like his own personal stress ball? Let us start at the beginning…
I arrive at Chi, The Spa in good spirits. Before long, I’ve swapped my trusty M&S briefs for something decidedly less sturdy (disposable boxer shorts) and am shown to the preparation room. It’s like Disney World for the stressed: a black slate womb complete with sauna, steam room, Jacuzzi, two shower rooms (experience and rainforest) and a hammam (Turkish bath). Gazing at the plaque signalling the latter, I can’t help but think of Man City’s German defensive midfielder Didi Hamann, whose nervous tick causes him to blink uncontrollably in every post match interview. Even Didi could take a load off in here. However, so eager am I to put the time in that I bounce from one apparatus to the other with an excitement contrary to any common notion of relaxation.
The rainforest shower intrigues me the most – I’ve never seen so many nozzles. All spas seem to be based on the theory that if you remove all the snakes, spiders and poisonous frogs, rainforests would be the most relaxing places on earth. It makes you wonder what all the blow darts and tribal warfare was about, but having steamed, soaked, dried and relaxed my pasty torso, I’m suitably calmed.
From here, I’m led by Dev, my masseur, to the massage room. In go the feet into a pot of water and rose petals, out comes the refreshing date tea and Chi questionnaire. It says things like, ‘What is your favourite colour: green, red, yellow, white or black?’ Actually it’s purple, but that’s not an option. Also, black is the absence of colour. I grit by teeth and pick black and green, just as I reluctantly choose ‘spicy/pungent’ as my second favourite flavour. The diagnosis is swift. I’m a wood-type personality, says Dev. This means that I’m an overachiever and tend to get angry when out of harmony. I’m apparently the Chinese equivalent of the Incredible Hulk (I knew I shouldn’t have picked green!).
Thankfully, the treatment begins before the monster can emerge. I knock back the date tea like a double strength Tetleys and I’m led next door to a medley of pan pipes and tinkly piano. However, lying face down on the table, a change occurs. My cynicism evaporates like so much camomile essence. Dev’s preparatory back massage condemns worries to a place of Chinese devilment and brimstone. On goes the scrub, out go the knots. It is just the primer, though, a softener for the main assault, as he works my spine like a tender fretboard and pummels my shoulders with a strength belying his delicate frame and cheerful smile.
Time is but an intricate pan pipe solo, and after seemingly an age, I flip over and we start on the face. Eyes shut, there is little but sensation to guide me – cold, wet, sticky, scratchy translates as mask, tone, moisturise, scrub. I thought that I’d feel self-conscious. Pinching, smoothing, blotting, dabbing, Dev does his stuff, and before long my treatment concludes with the tinkling of cymbals.
I leave thoroughly revitalised. I’m not running through walls or anything, but my skin has a glow it rarely (never) exhibits, and I do feel calmer. But strangely, the best bit of it all was the theatrical side. It turns out that my ideal world is no such thing – it’s a cliché. My faux male pride is just that. It’s easy to chuckle at all the ceremony, but that’s why it’s fun.
It’s certainly not something I’d do every day; there isn’t time – from start to finish, I was there all of two hours – but as a former slovenly male, I wish to renounce my ways. From now on, it’ll be Chi for me.
The Chi Vitality Facial costs Dhs650. Chi, The Spa at Shangri-La Qaryat Al Beri Hotel is open daily from 10am-9pm. Call 02 509 8888 to book, or visit
di.illingworth@gmail.com to find your element sign.
