The Stand-In(33)

I lie there in a blissful daze of relaxation until she starts to pull off the mask, which has cemented itself to my face. At my mewl of protest, the aesthetician pauses. “This shouldn’t hurt,” she says.

I would have answered had I been able to move my lips, but the mask has glued them in place. The woman tugs at the mask and lifts my head right off the table.

“I haven’t seen this before,” she says in a thoughtful tone.

There are certain times I don’t want to hear that I’m special. The first is from any healthcare professional. A close second is from a woman who’s slathered me with goop she can’t get off my face. Mei materializes beside me like Porella, the Avenging Angel of Skincare, as the woman slowly peels the mask off. I swivel my eyes to her face and see the droplets of stress sweat on her upper lip as Mei murmurs a stream of low-voiced encouragement that the aesthetician and I both interpret as thinly veiled threats.

I’ve never been flayed but I have ripped off adhesive bandages. I imagine this experience is somewhere between the two. I’m no yeti but whatever hairs were on my face bid my skin an unwilling farewell as she detaches the mask millimeter by millimeter and I try not to squeal. It’s hard.

When she gives a final rip, I screech.

The door bangs open. “What the hell’s going on?”

A lot of things happen at once. Sam comes through the door in a dark blur. Shocked, I pop up from the table like a jack-in-the-box, forgetting that I’m only wrapped in a towel that immediately falls off. Sam makes eye contact with me before his eyes dip down to my gigantic heart-polka-dot granny panties and he freezes before he slaps his hands over his face and stumbles back making inarticulate sounds. I scramble to pick up the towel, in the process knocking the portable table with my butt. It slams into the poor aesthetician, who is gawking at the beauty that is Sam Yao. She falls back and then lets out a high keening sound as her hand plunges into the pot of whitish devil goo that has made such a mess of my face.

Mei rises up and gets us organized without a single word. Sam is sent to wait in his room. I’m directed to get back on the table with a finger jab. She gives a look to the aesthetician—a marvel of expressionless eloquence—who wipes her twitching hands with a towel.

All that beautiful relaxation has gone. How could I have forgotten to get the key from Sam? My face, the skin much thinner than it was ten minutes ago, burns with shame. How much did he see? Once I’m not dressed in a towel, we’re going to have words, but now I’m a beaten human sprawled across the table with Mei bending over me shaking her head and the aesthetician poking at me with cautious fingers.

“Nothing a cooling mask won’t solve,” she chirps finally.

I catch Mei’s eye and we have a moment of communion as I beg her through an interpretive eyebrow dance to save me.

“We’re due for another appointment,” she says smoothly.

“Then I’ll use a toner and…”

“I’m good!” I swing my feet down and slide on the thin terry cloth slippers. I finally manage to back out, holding the towel around me. Mei follows me into the bedroom, me poking my head around the door to make sure it’s Sam-free, and we both look in the mirror to survey the blotchy patches that cover my face like an infectious disease.

I crane my neck to the side and suck in my cheek. There’s a patch that resembles Australia. “It’s not that bad,” I say. “A little sore, maybe. That’s the point of exfoliation, right? To get rid of dead layers to get your skin softer?” I’ve never done more than a crushed-apricot-seed scrub, so this is out of my realm of experience.

I splash cold water on my face to relieve some of the burn and then dampen a towel to press against my cheek. There’s no point getting angry at the aesthetician, who probably did the best she could, so I keep my mouth shut and try to look on the bright side. Mei watches me in the mirror. “Did she ask about your skin type? What medications you’re on? If you had previous allergies?”

“What does that matter?” I move the towel to the other side.

“It’s her job and she failed if she didn’t check.”

“Well, it’s too late now. I’m sure she did her best.” I don’t want to get her in trouble. I grab a vial of hotel moisturizer and slather my face with the smell of vanilla and nutmeg. I read a study that said that men like women to smell like sweet foods but I don’t think this is what they had in mind. I now smell like a bakery prepping for the holidays.

Perfect.

***

I decide to ignore Sam’s spectator status in my latest disgrace and pray he’ll do the same. There’s no need for either of us to relive that moment of grooming chaos, and now that we’ve called a détente, it would be rude of him to try to lord it over me.

Mei puts the shopping visitors off for an hour as she works over my face with a solid inch of foundation.

“Whoa.” I lean over and inspect the space where Australia used to be. Nothing. “You did a fantastic job.”

Mei says nothing but packs away the brushes and paints with the grim satisfaction of a woman who has accomplished the impossible. Then she hands me the wig.

“Am I Fangli for this?”

“Yes.”

I tuck my short hair in and let the wig fall down my back. Maybe I’ll grow my hair out. I wonder if Sam prefers long hair or short.