THE TRANSMUTATION
Today marks the start of a new era. I’ve just graduated from my vocational school, and intend to spend the rest of my time in Japan travelling and feeding curiosities. Today it would mark the threshold between one bounded arc and a spontaneous passage into the next.
Today, I had a reservation for a massage in Ikebukuro, a graduation treat from my parents. I had found a good deal on the popular Japanese app Hot Pepper Beauty, and booked a good deal of a two-hour session combining dry massage, oil, and head massage. Most of the places I found were either Thai massage salons or Shiatsu-based ones. I’m going to Thailand in a few months, so I’d rather try Thai massage there. Shiatsu, on the other hand, while interesting, seemed a little too therapeutic for relaxation purposes. So, after some struggle, I finally chose a genuine Japanese salon where I could reset myself as a welcome into my new era.
I had made an evening reservation, afraid of being late. This would be only my second massage ever, and I was thrilled. The first had been back in Spain, my home country. When my parents asked me about it, I couldn’t bring myself to tell them that it felt as if someone were dragging a pile of soggy wieners across my body. So I had high expectations for this one.
I entered a building next to a large Hello Kitty gate and climbed up the stairs, arriving just on time. A nice young woman welcomed me and invited me to change into slippers. She had an accent—I could have sworn it was Chinese. She made sure the course massage I had booked was correct, and although she mentioned Shiatsu, I agreed, assuming she was referring to the oil massage.
She guided me to a cabin and left me alone to undress under soft, peaceful music. This is the part where I start getting nervous at places. Should I wait with a towel on? Am I allowed to touch the towels? Do I have to call her when I’m ready? I decided to change and wait lying down, properly hidden under a towel. I remembered my feet, always blackened by the remains of my lousy socks, and I quickly dusted them off. After a while, the girl called out and entered. I placed my face inside the half-circle-shaped hole on the massage table. Only later would I realize I had done it completely wrong by leaving my jaw hanging into half the opening—only my mouth and nose were supposed to fit in the hole.
She started by asking whether there was any particular area I was concerned about, and I answered, “Back and shoulders”. Then, she put her hands on me. She had strength. This is it, I thought, Finally a well-done massage. After a while, I would feel as if I were being overcooked. She had indeed taken in my concerns about back and shoulders, and pressed knots and joints as if trying to kill a tough bug inside them. I did my best to look relaxed while she shifted from her fingers to elbows, thoroughly working over every part of my body. She worked first on one half of my back, making it excruciating not only because of the pain in real time, but also because of the dread of the upcoming second half.
There was a moment where she traced a finger nearby my spine and stopped over a spot I anticipated would be piercingly painful. She paused for a second, in which I felt as if I were hiding under a bed, holding my breath while watching an intruder’s feet move around my bedroom. She then appeared to spare me, brushed my left arm slightly, and ignored the right one, perhaps for her own lack of enjoyment.
The room, which had been quietly melodic, began to grow noisy. Conversations in Chinese drifted from the other cabins and the corridor, which, judging by the whispering and laughter, I translated as gossip. It had transformed from a “relaxation salon” into a hair salon. I didn’t even care. I focused only on taking deep breaths and sinking into agony. I started to regret choosing the longest session I could find…
She was finally done with my back and moved on to my legs. Fortunately, it wasn’t nearly as tormenting. What frightened me were the feet, which are specially sensitive, but luckily she merely thumped my heels instead of massaging them.
She left me alone for a moment. I felt like a pile of tenderized meat. She came back carrying some hot stones and placed them in a line on my spine. If she meant to torture me with them, she failed—I loved it. I felt as though my sore body was hissing with delight.
She proceeded to my head. I doubted she was supposed to smash that too, so I found myself looking forward to it. She asked me to lie on my back, placed a towel over my eyes, and worked from my scalp down to my face. Why couldn’t the whole thing have felt like this? And then, it was over. I guess that was part of the torture too. She finished by giving me a moment to sit up before drumming against my shoulders and back. And that was it.
I dressed after wiping the oil off what was left of my body. I approached the mirror to inspect myself, and what I saw shocked me—I wore the most relaxed expression I have ever seen on my face. My skin looked plump and smooth, my cheeks rosy and soft, and my eyes heavy-lidded and serene.
I hid my oily bangs beneath my cap and left the room. I said goodbye to the artist and lied to her with a polite, “That felt really good.”
I stepped out into the night. Ikebukuro was just as lively as ever: Lights blazing, video screens, and crowds of people flowing in every direction. I decided to get a hot drink, so I headed to a café that had previously turned me away for lack of seats, all because, as usual, I had spent too long hesitating between options.
The café was a narrow, four-story building where a wooden mermaid of swaying hair guarded the entrance with an “open” sign. Each section of the café occupied a different floor. I climbed to the counter, on the second floor, and ordered a hot matcha latte and a white chocolate bun. A staff member invited me then to head up to the café lounge on the upper floors.
I climbed the compact staircase to the space above, and spotted a small table by the window. Lively classical music played in the background. A group of people sat nearby opening presents, exclaiming and clapping joyfully. I settled into the cornered spot and opened a book on my phone, then warmed myself with the sweet matcha latte and enjoyed my crispy bun. I felt like an ordinary person doing ordinary things I never do. I was reading a book in a pretty café, having a hot drink after a productive massage.
I looked forward to feeling the benefits of the massage the next morning, and hoped to wake up to discover the silver lining to all that suffering. However, I didn’t get a single moment of sleep. For the entire night, I just lay in bed with my eyes wide open like a bewildered owl, as if having forgotten the tactic for sleeping.
