06/14/2026
THE SPA
Last weekend, I happened to run into one of my granddaughters-in-law at our local country store. After a warm and welcome hug, I inquired about her activities of the day.
“Oh, Peeps,” she exclaimed, “I’m being treated to a spa day!”
“Well, good,” I replied. “Enjoy.” Her being a mother of two little ones and a third on the way, a day without changing diapers would do her good. That did get me thinking.
This Boomer doesn’t recall any such thing as a spa back in my childhood days. I’m guessing our mother’s trips to the beauty shop were what they considered relaxing.
Several years back, this story ran on The Southern Voice, but I thought our new readers might enjoy reading this Boomer’s fish out of water adventure.
“You need a facial,” Better Half announced as if she’d just received a message from God.
“Huh,” this husband replied, not wanting to be disturbed. The boys of summer were back, and a conversation about anything other than baseball was far from my mind.
“I SAID you need a facial,” she repeated ten decibels higher as if emphasizing my need for a hearing aid.
“Men don’t do that,” this man replied while turning my attention back to the ballgame.
“They do where I work,” she said dryly, her tone sending a clear message that she didn’t marry well.
“Yeah, but you’re employed in the academic world,” I said while turning the volume down, despite a no-hitter headed into the seventh inning. This was an argument worth having. Those men she was speaking of also have their hair styled at beauty shops, and nails done by little Vietnamese women. I enjoy getting my crew-cut at the local barbershop because the conversation is stimulating, and the smells, green hair tonic mixed with hot shaving cream, remind me of my childhood. And it only costs ten bucks, tip included.
“Are you saying I’m ugly?” Always, in marriage, lead with a good offense. Her hesitation spoke volumes and told me her true feelings. But heck, after spending a childhood barefoot and shirtless, then grinding across this great land, staring into the sun from a cockpit for three decades, there’s a price to pay.
“I’m just saying you could use a little help,” she said, hand on hip.
“I go to the dermatologist and have the scars to prove it,” was my defensive reply. I’ve been cut on so many times, the good doctor has quit saying, ‘This is going to sting a little,’ now she mumbles right before plunging a needle in my face, ‘I hurt you now.’
“Not going, case settled,” I thought.
“They can do things doctors don’t have time for,” she replied, looking much like her mother.
“Peels, wraps, and a host of treatments to make your complexion better.”
“Ain’t going,” this husband said while reaching for the remote.
“They’ll serve you a glass of wine,” she revealed.
“A beer?”
“No, silly,” she said, rolling her brown eyes, “Wine!”
“Men don’t...”
“Yes, they do!”
“Not any I know,” I thought.
“I’m not going,” was my firm reply.
“Your appointment is tomorrow!”
“Cancel it!” Somehow, I knew the smug look on her face meant things weren’t going my way.
“They have a twenty-four-hour policy, and you’re within that window.”
“Don’t care!”
“Ok,” she agreed easily. “Since there’s a waiting list and I went to all this trouble...”
“Ruck Ro! When the drama starts, that means she’s already sandbagged me!” I thought. “...to get you an appointment, then you can pay for it, not me!”
“Dang! She knows how I hate to waste my money!”
“You know this harkens back to our younger days when your mother was constantly inviting me over for Sunday dinner. Then raving about how you prepared the wonderful meal. Y’all were setting this hog up for slaughter, and only revealed after the wedding that you couldn’t cook.
“Mother always said you weren’t very bright,” she smugly replied, leaving me to the
ballgame.
My first sinking spell occurred after driving into the parking lot. There were more BMWs, Mercedes, and sport utility vehicles than you would find at an Ivy League communist meeting.
My old black and partially rusted truck stood out like a man praying before the congregation with his pants unzipped.
Cactus plants, surrounded by smooth multicolored rocks, dominated the grounds of the adobe building. Many bird baths, flowing with perpetual water filled in all the other spaces.
A second sinking spell came as I sat there looking at their effort to reproduce the image of some fancy desert spa in Palm Springs. This man could only imagine the old Marine’s reaction that had dragged me into manhood.
“Yes sir, Daddy,” I’d say as we rode the pastures looking for sick cattle, “One day I’ll be
going to some fancy spa to get my face pampered. Not only that, later I’ll carry my wife’s dainty little poodle to the Dog Emporium for the same treatment.” He’d have clubbed me in the head like a baby seal to keep me from reproducing and ruining his good name.
This geezer only thought the landscaping was overdone until stepping into the reception area.
A huge waterfall flowed from a small rock mountain and gushed into a large pool filled with goldfish and green lily pads. Some kind of supposing soothing music filled the lobby, and this man felt assured it wasn’t the Who singing, ‘Teenage Wasteland,’ nor, Toby Keith belting, ‘We’ll put a boot in your ass,’ from Angry American.
Thankfully, the waiting room, which was filled with cushy chairs, and such was devoid of other people. The young girl behind the reception desk, surely on break from her sixth-grade social studies class, immediately decided upon seeing me there was a Code Red.
“All deliveries are made through the back door,” she crisply announced with her pert little nose up in the air.
“I have an appointment,” I said, sticking my nose up also. Poor girl, the look on her face could only be reproduced by misreading an anxious home pregnancy test.
“Oh,” she replied, wondering just what in the world to do. “We have a few papers you need to sign, sir,” she said, catching a breath of composure.
After scanning the papers and assuring this business with a signature, that no, they won’t be held liable if they cause me to wear an iron mask, the little girl led me to room six.
It wasn’t like any medical facility I’d ever visited. One wall was covered with a full-length mirror, and the others had pictures of every star and starlet that graced the big screen. In the middle of the room sat an over-done barber’s chair that was cross-bred with a big fat leather recliner. It was a rednecks dream for watching football.
Since no one handed me a butt-less green gown, this man was pretty sure that removing my clothes wasn’t necessary. As I studied a gazillion bottles of lotions, body washes, and powders, the door sprang open. In marched not one young lady, not two, but three that were cuter than a crate full of flop-eared boxer puppies! Two perky brunettes, one frosted blond, and they all were wearing bright smiles with perfect teeth.
“I guess after the word spread, they’ve sent in the A team,” I thought as they assisted me to a comfortable position. Two immediately started studying my face by running long fingers with polished nails over my ruddy skin. The other one took my bald head to task as if she was drawing maps with her fingers.
“What is your occupation?” asked the deep blue-eyed one. This old man could hear Pacific waves crashing in the background from the color. For many years, I’d always dodged this question because it brought on too much conversation. I’d always say, “Transportation industry,” and nothing more. But today, for some reason, I answered truthfully.
“Professional pilot.”
“Oh, I wish my boyfriend would do something exciting like that. He’s twenty-four and has changed his major six times already.”
“Wel,l hell’s bells,” I thought, “A positive reaction! How rare!”
“Let me guess,” I said, taking a shot in the dark, “He still lives with his parents.”
“How did you know?” she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder as if consulting a guru on some mountain top. At this point, this geezer realized that he’d crossed over the line and wasn’t in danger of being tagged as a creepy, twenty pounds over-weight, middle aged guy who still thought he had the right stuff.
“I’m the wise old grandfather now!” I thought.
“Just a daddy’s intuition,” I answered.
“I told you to dump him two years ago,” one chimed, her claws clearly out.
“Forrest Gump got a degree in four years,” the other added. “And your boyfriend is still a junior; he’s a mama’s boy.”
“I know, I know,” the young lady agreed wistfully, “But we’ve got to take care of our
customer.” She gave me another searching look. After a nervous glance at the others, she said lowly, “I’m supposed to recommend the Gentleman’s Special...a deep cleaning, exfoliating with a relaxing mask...”
“Look, girls, I’m just a gnarly old guy...”
“I think you look very rugged,” the one with brown eyes chirped.
“Me too,” blue eyes added.
“Lord, I’ve died and gone to heaven!”
“That’s really sweet of y’all,” I said while pulling some cash from my pocket. “How about I pay the freight as if the full treatment was rendered?” After snapping off each girl a crisp twenty I asked, “There wouldn’t be a cold beer around here, would there?”
“There’s a six-pack of Heineken,” one happily announced.
“Great,” I said, “How about bring me two and we’ll just chat up a storm until my time is up.”
“Do you really think I should break up with him?” Blue eyes asked as her friend went to retrieve my cold one.
“Honey, find you a man who can put a forty-pound pack and a M-16 on his back and march twenty miles. Or one who dreams of building a dam in Nairobi to bring fresh water to the masses. Life is too short, and you’re too pretty to waste time on a Beta-male.”
“How’d it go?” Better Half asked that evening. “You don’t look any different,” she added with a touch of suspicion.
“Oh, I got the full treatment,” I grumbled as if she’d forced me to have a perfectly good tooth extracted. “Here’s the bill,” this husband said, throwing it on the counter.
“I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”
“Who said lying isn’t good for a relationship!”
