Project: Vanity

I arrive 10 minutes late for my eyelash extension at Michaud Cosmedix (69 Newbury St., 617-262-1607), the go-to place for Bostonians who know that a well-shaped brow can be, in the words of owner Julie Michaud, “better than a facelift.” After arguing my way past a sour receptionist—Yes, I know I’m late; yes, I know I’ll have to wait a while—I settle into a quilted lavender velvet couch in the airy waiting lounge. A crystal chandelier hovers above a coffee table that holds a heaping plate of white LifeSavers.

I’m on my second when Cindy comes to collect me. In one of the spa’s four treatment rooms—one for brows and makeup, two for eyelashes and facials, one for micropigmentation (permanent makeup)—I lie down on a cushy table. Since Michaud introduced extensions to Boston two years ago, the studio has averaged 50 appointments per week (extensions start at $150). Cindy—a Southie brunette with flawless makeup and a sultry voice—works a pair of very sharp tweezers in the direction of my eyeball. In an hour, she’ll have glued up to 30 synthetic lashes to my natural ones. If I follow all the rules on my take-home tip sheet (no oil-based makeup remover or eye creams, no steams for 48 hours, and, uh, no putting my face under the stream of water in the shower) and come for touch-ups every two to four weeks, some of the falsies could last for six months.

That night, I debut my new eyes at the Barneys New York store opening at Copley Place. No one notices, unless I point them out, although three different Globe photographers ask to take my picture. Already, I feel like a celebrity—and why not? I will, after all, be spending the next two weeks at the spa.



TEN DAYS, FOUR FACIALS, six massages, two salt scrubs, two body wraps, four manicures, three pedicures, and an acupuncture treatment later, I’ve been steamed, plucked, pricked, waxed, tossed, and handled up and down Newbury Street. Five women, and one transgendered man, have seen me fully naked. My eyebrows are thinner, my eyelashes thicker, my ears completely free of waxy buildup. I have been streaked, in a very literal sense, by an Eastern European armed with an airbrush gun. I have had (not all unwanted, mind you) hair stripped from my face, lip, legs, underarms, and rather intimately in and around my bikini line including what in spa speak is evidently known as the “yummy trail.” I’ve been slathered with butter cream and then submerged in the center of a deflated waterbed mattress.

The project—to visit every spa on Newbury—was conceived as an insider’s guide to the street’s flourishing beauty scene, which has been bolstered by two notable additions: an outpost of the popular Wellesley Hills SkinHealth (73 Newbury St., 877-705-7546) and the outrageously posh, five-story Emerge by Giuliano (275 Newbury St., 617-437-0006). Within a week and a half, I would get a treatment at every spa on the strip, defined for our purposes as any nonmedical spa that offers at least two non-salon-related services (waxing, nails) and where appointments are encouraged (that’s to say, no walk-in nail shanties, although I did end up at one). Emerge wasn’t open for business in time to meet my deadline, but I included Exhale, the incumbent king of the one-stop spa, just a block away from Newbury at 28 Arlington St. (617-532-7000).

Created and owned by Boston lawyer-turned-spa doyenne Joyce Hampers, Emerge takes aim at the Manolo set with fancy features like WiFi and plasma TVs, a VIP entrance, and an upscale roof café. In addition to standard services such as facials, massages, and body treatments, the superspa will offer laser and pulsed-light therapy, Botox and Restylane, and consultations with two in-house, board-certified plastic surgeons. And unlike the other med-spas in town, Emerge guarantees a doctor on-site at all times. This is serious beauty business.

Twelve years ago, when Hampers first opened Giuliano Day Spa at 338 Newbury (now g2o Spa + Salon), there were 250 day spas in the United States. Now there are more than 7,000. “One simple fact: People want to do business with people who are attractive,” Hampers says. “Being beautiful increases productivity. If you get up in the morning and your hair falls into place and your skin looks great, you’re unstoppable. If you’re frumpy, you fall short.”

Perhaps as a result of having come of age in a time when “men had no trouble discriminating against women” and law school classmates would ask if she was “ashamed to have taken a place that could have gone to a man,” Hampers—who served for four years as assistant secretary of commerce under President George H. W. Bush—firmly believes that a woman’s looks can and should help her get ahead. “There were lots of times I found I got my way because of how I looked,” she says. “In the early days of feminism, the general notion for a woman was, ‘You can’t be taken seriously if you look that good.’ But then we realized we don’t have to look or even act like men to be successful. In fact, we’ll get farther if we don’t.”



FOR MOST OF US, however, looking good is not easy. It’s neither convenient nor cheap. My 10-day journey into professionally assisted beautification came to $2,974, including tips. Meanwhile, I missed a dentist appointment, my mother’s birthday, and most deadlines at work. I nearly undid seven years’ worth of yoga training. One day, I forgot to feed my cat. “Yeah, but look,” I offer friends I haven’t seen in a week. “Look at my lashes.”

On Day Two, the morning after the Barneys party, I’m booked for a hot stone massage ($145) at Beaucage Salon & Spa (71 Newbury St., 617-437-7171), a full-service spa that offers skincare, nails, waxing, sunless tanning, and five types of massage. Massage has never particularly interested me. If good, it puts me to sleep; one hour and $100 later, I wake with the vague sense that something’s happened, but with no tangible proof.

I’m 20 minutes late. The Beaucage girls are more or less forgiving and perhaps because it’s not busy I still get the full 80-minute massage. The spa is small—a single floor with just four treatment rooms—but cozy in wood and pale yellow. There are no lockers, but after I change, my massage therapist, Natalie, hangs my clothes in a big cloth garment bag and leads me to a tiny treatment nook.

Hot stone massage consists of placing heated basalt stones onto specific points to relieve stress. Some of my stones are a little too heated, which is stressful, but when we’re done, I feel relaxed as Natalie brings me cucumber water, mint tea, some strawberries, and a stack of fashion magazines. I’m already 15 minutes late for my next appointment and about to get up when Natalie returns with a steamy towel soaked in eucalyptus that she pats onto the back of my neck.

By the time I get to Mario Russo (9 Newbury St., 617-424-6676) for my manicure, I’m told that Maria has already taken her next client. I try the “Oh, I wrote down 11:30 instead of 11, silly me!” trick, which I use often, although I don’t know why, since no one ever believes it.

Maria can see me at 2, so I come back then. Mario Russo is primarily a hair salon, but two estheticians also cover nails and waxing. The manicure ($25) is good, but Maria is great—chatty and fun. Even though she tells me my cuticles are a mess, she doesn’t try to sell me Mario’s cuticle cream. At the end, she hands me her card and promises a free manicure for every friend I refer and then decides to charge me next time, instead. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” she says.

Day Three. Is it really just Day Three? I blow off my 9:15 eyebrow wax with Lori at Mechanique (115 Newbury St., 617-236-0555) and sleep in. That afternoon, my friend Sophie, who is pregnant, joins me at Daryl Christopher Salon and Day Spa (37 Newbury St., 617-424-0250). The waiting room is officelike; in place of couches or comfy loungers, there’s just a round table encircled by wicker chairs. Sophie’s having a massage with Jack, who gives “the best pre-natal on Newbury” ($120). I’m with Olga for a Swedish ($95). I tell her I’ve got a kink in my neck. It’s still there when I leave. Sophie fares a little better, reporting that Jack made her feel comfortable and seemed extremely knowledgeable. Neither of us like that there’s no changing room.

I continue on to Enzo & Co. Salon (135 Newbury St., 617-369-4844), where a glass wall overlooking Newbury’s streaming crowds makes waiting for a blow-dry with Gosia ($30) sort of fun. Half an hour till I’m meeting friends for dinner means there’s just enough time to stop into Les Amis (91 Newbury St., 617-353-1981) for a quick polish change ($12). (Sorry, Maria.)



EXHALE IS A chain, but doesn’t feel like one, with jute rugs, pale green accents, and doors made of Indonesian wood. It offers fitness classes and an expansive, something-for-everyone list of services, including six kinds of facials, 11 types of massage, and specialized Chinese medical treatments like craniosacral therapy, reiki, and acupuncture, which are the spa’s main draws. Estheticians here who practice standard services—facials, massage, waxing—are typically less experienced than those at smaller spas, I learn (big spas like Exhale take a bigger cut of employee profits), and it’s often obvious. The facials, massage, and manicures I’ve gotten here have all been disappointing.

I tell Jennifer, my acupuncturist, that I’m suffering from occasional insomnia. She starts by asking me questions, with a hand on each of my wrists, then palpates my belly. Certain points on the stomach correspond to ones on the arms; sensitivity at both will tell her where to stick the needles, which, if there was any question, is exactly what they are. I end up with two on the inside of my left wrist, one on the top of my right, three near my navel, and then a few in my feet and one in my “third eye,” the space between my brows. Depending on the issue and its intensity, Jennifer tells me, some people can take up to 16 needles at a time.

Earlier, I’d gone for a quickie facial at the upbeat-in-green-and-fuschia G Spa (35 Newbury St., 617-267-4772). And although the treatment wasn’t anything I couldn’t do at home with the same products, my skin looks so great I wonder why Sherri often performs just one a day. I also wonder if the glycolic acid she used is what’s causing the acupuncture needles in my face to sting.

I’m not sure it has anything to do with the acupuncture ($100 for 30 minutes; $150 for an hour)—in the end, I received a total of just 12 needles—but that night, I sleep well for the first time in weeks.



DAY FIVE. The man who answers the phone when I call 30 Newbury Spa (30 Newbury St., 617-266-7606) gets excited a) that I’m calling and b) that I’m not sure what I want. He recommends the signature facial ($140), which is, of course, “the best on Newbury.” I start to tell him I just had a facial the day before, and maybe he could suggest something else—the spa also offers wraps—but he cuts me off. “Really, it’s legendary. Really the best. I’m putting you down for the 30 Newbury Classic.”

The spa itself has the sterile feel of a scary doctor’s office: A high check-in counter stands beside a long hallway. Treatment rooms branch off behind plain, white doors. The waiting area chairs are uncomfortable. There’s no cucumber water here.

But the stark treatment rooms are surprisingly roomy, and Kathleen instructs me to remove “everything from the top but nothing from the bottom!” and slide under the covers. She walks me through every process, and although the actual words tell me nothing—“This is a cleansing cream that will give your skin just a magnificent, radiant glow”; “Now I’m using a very special cream. It’ll make your skin glow, radiant and just magnificent”; “I just hope you’re going somewhere very special tonight, what with your new, radiant skin”—somehow I trust what she’s doing. What I don’t trust is the 15 minute steam, which I’m positive is messing with my lash extensions.

Afterward, my hair is greasy and my bangs are messy, Alfred E. Newman style, so I stop by Salon Red & Spa (144B Newbury St., 617-267-1800) for a shampoo and blow-dry. Far from trying too hard, this place isn’t trying at all. A bunch of bored-looking stylists sit around a large platter of doughnuts. Then Lauren gives me one of the best blow-dries I’ve ever gotten. At $35, it seems a little pricey, but this is Newbury. Meanwhile, my skin is red, but unmistakably glowing. (Really.)

Salon Trio is a homey studio apartment of a spa at 115 Newbury (617-838-1406), consisting of Jeanne and Tatyana for nails and Rina for waxing. The three worked together at Austen’s, which until the end of February was just across the hall. Everyone on Newbury knows Austen, whose quick and (relatively) painless bikini waxes made him legendary among Back Bay Brazilian-seekers. When Austen became Arwen, she sadly saw many of her loyal following vanish. She now works out of the Salon at 10 Newbury (10 Newbury St., 617-247-4900).

For an extra $40, Jeanne will add reflexology to her already extremely thorough pedicure ($50). More than just an intense foot rub, the technique uses reflex zones in the feet to release blocked energy in other parts of the body. Through my foot, Jeanne can feel that kink Olga left in my neck. Afterwards, I shuffle in my foam flip-flops over to Tatyana’s table for a manicure ($23). Thanks to a special trick she says few know about, the light-pink polish she layers on lasts nearly five days.



TO PREPARE for this assignment, I have been growing out my underarm hair for three torturous weeks. It’s finally long enough to wax. As I change for yoga that night in the locker room at Exhale, I realize I’ve only brought a tank top. The hair is long, and it’s very dark. I can’t go to class. I have to go to class. Ten minutes later, I’m in a simple forward fold, and my legs, which are supporting just the weight of my body, are shaking as if I’ve just run a marathon or haven’t worked out in years. I’m barely able to stand. This story is no girlie-journalism cakewalk; it’s fully messing with my chi. (Also, yes: I shaved.)



I LOVE THE Loft Salon and Day Spa (207 Newbury St., 617-536-5638). It’s like the neighborhood hair salon I imagine my Nan Giacobbe used to go to, except fancier. Today, I’m here for an eyebrow wax ($20) with Rachel, the esthetician. Her room is tiny, but cozy, with a thick chenille blanket and a stereo that plays calming, but not spa-noying, music. She also has a window that actually opens. You don’t realize how nice fresh air is until you’re reminded you haven’t had any for a while.

I choose the breezy Violet Skin Boutique (257 Newbury St., 617-262-7546), for my first foray into leg-hair removal because Violet herself tested more than 32 waxes in the United States and abroad before settling on the one she determined to be the gentlest on skin ($75 for full leg). Also, it smells like almonds and lemons in here.

“The first time’s the worst,” Karen tells me as she slaps the first layer of hard wax onto my virgin legs, and, hi, she’s right. I’m quite sure it’s the worst voluntary pain e-v-e-r, and it’s not quick; I’m on the paper-top cot for a good 40 minutes. But she promises that, from now on, hair will grow in softer and sparser, and she’s right about that, too.

I also have Karen wax my upper lip, just for fun ($10). Bad idea!



DAY SEVEN. I’m beat, and getting tired of people touching me, so I bat my new (fresh from a touch-up at Michaud) lashes and convince my coworker Bob to take my place for a Swedish massage ($75 per hour, $50 per half hour) at Eclipse Salon/Gallery (164 Newbury St., 617-247-6730), a salon-spa that doubles as an art space. For a place with a relatively low profile (I’d never heard of it), Eclipse’s spa menu is extensive: waxing, massage, facials, plus rarer offerings like ear-candling and, according to their website, eyelash tinting, which I’m not sure is even legal. The massage is good, and Bob leaves happy.



DAYS SEVEN AND EIGHT find me at I Soci (8 Newbury St., 617-867-9484) for an ultra-thorough facial ($65) with Ella, a motherly Armenian; the all-pink Newbury Day Spa (8 Newbury St., 617-437-7775) for a surprisingly good pedicure (on a pink chair, feet in a pink tub) with Rya ($39); a solid, if uninspired, massage with a straight-out-of-Stepford therapist at Elizabeth Grady (11 Newbury St., 617-536-4447); and my fourth, and—praise be—final facial at Bella Santé (38 Newbury St., 617-424-9930), where the products are rich, the staff amiable, and the water cucumber.



I’VE ALREADY had my eyelashes extended twice when I visit Lux Lash (231 Newbury St., 617-587-5274), which bills itself as “the nation’s first semi-permanent lash and brow spa.” Though only five months old, Lux has already outgrown its space and plans to move to a bigger location on Newbury later this spring. Owner Suzanne Cats guides me to a plushy reclining dentist chair. An hour later, she shakes my shoulder and tells me we’re done, and also that I snore. “We keep a jar of earplugs at the front desk, so guests don’t have to listen to one another,” she jokes. She’s attached 30 more lashes to each eye. Dramatic types (“lash addicts,” Cats calls them) can take up to 60 per eye ($250). Cats sends me home with Lux Lash’s own line of lash-safe skin care and invites me back anytime. “We’ll make an addict out of you,” she says.

She might be right. At work, everyone agrees there’s just something different about me. I think I’d feel great, if I weren’t so tired. So far, I’m not getting ahead in my career any, but that’s probably because I haven’t been in the office in two weeks.



AT WELL OVER 6 feet, and wearing a pink jersey top with a seriously plunging neckline, Arwen is the only pop in the otherwise frill-free Salon at 10 Newbury. Leading me into an all-beige Formica-heavy room with an artlessly paper-covered table, she gives me no instructions (Underwear on or off? What about socks? Underwear off, socks on?) and doesn’t leave. I start to undress. It’s not clear on which end of the table I’m supposed to rest my head, so I make a guess and hop on. She still hasn’t said a word.

Until, with pursed lips: “Who did this last?”

I’m booked for a Brazilian, which generally means all of it, baby, but all of it can mean all of it, or most of it, or, most commonly, however much the esthetician is feeling up to that day. Arwen doesn’t ask me how I want it (so I say, please leave a little), nor if I’m comfortable (the wax is a little too hot, but I keep quiet), but true to her reputation, she’s done in a flash, and even defuzzes areas most others ignore. She tells me not to come back for six weeks. A deal at $50.

I have an hour to kill before my next appointment, and, although I excluded walk-in nail shops in my quest, my nails—accustomed now to being groomed—are in need of a touch-up. At Lauren’s Nail & Skin Salon (164 Newbury St., 617-267-1496), an unlikely assembly of fur-wearing, Balenciaga-toting ladies sit at not-immaculate manicure tables. I’m ushered to a seat held together with duct tape, where a woman who never tells me her name gives me the best manicure I’ve gotten this week ($13). And I’m out in 20 minutes.

Blu Salon is on the top floor of 118 Newbury, with a big bay window seat that looks down onto the sidewalk (617-236-4488). Victoria, the only nail tech, has worked on the street for more than 15 years (30 Newbury, Michaud Cosmedix) and her tiny pedicure room (once a coat closet) pays homage to that, with an entire wall covered in years’ of holiday cards from customers. She likes to gossip about the Street, and she’ll push closed the door to her room when she’s about to share something particularly juicy.

It’s not quite 30 degrees outside, but Victoria insists that I leave wearing a pair of paper flip flops. She works hard and gets “ really mad when clients smudge their polish,” she says. “My pedicures last a long time.” At $75, it’s pricier than I expected, but she’s the first non-relative to tell me I have “little, chubby feet.” I appreciate an honest businesswoman.



A COMPLETE EVERHAUL of Giuliano Day Spa in March resulted in the gleaming new g2o Spa and Salon (338 Newbury St., 617-262-2220), done up in steel and cobalt. “Emerge is elegant, sophisticated,” CEO Hampers says. “g2o is more frivolous and social, for people who aren’t afraid to get naked and want to do it together.” The SoHo to Emerge’s Park Avenue.

The new spa is only one of a handful in Boston to offer ear candling ($65), a deep cleaning of—you guessed it—the ear canal. I lie on my side on a comfortable table as Liz places a 16-inch-long muslin cone into my ear that, when lit, works as a suction. Each side burns down to about four inches, and then we flip. At the end, she asks if I want to see what’s been lifted, which, of course, I do. My debris is below average, and I feel proud. “Some people can pack an entire four-inch cone,” she says. It sounds gross, and it is, but I’m not surprised when Liz tells me that she often has to restrict clients’ visits. “People get crazy for ear candling, once they see what’s actually in there,” she says. “But a certain amount of wax is good for you.”

A rasul chamber—an intricately tiled steam room that’s pitch black save for twinkling overhead “stars”—is g2o’s pièce de résistance, imported from Hungary and one of only a handful in the United States. I opt for the safer-sounding “soft-pack,” in which I’m salt-scrubbed down, then lotioned up, plastic-wrapped, lowered into what is essentially the center of a deflated waterbed, and left to sweat it out for 45 minutes. It’s supposed to be relaxing, but I think I’ve reached my peak.