Facing Up to Facials : The pinching, steaming, smoothing and massaging leaves a guy with a good-- though a bit unfamiliar--feeling.

The woman in the lab coat leads you into a cramped, dim room and closes the door. There’s a reclining chair and, in the corner, a chrome contraption that looks like a miniature espresso machine, only more suspicious. Bottles of potions and oils clutter a small table. You’re feeling queasy.

So, before the torture begins, you confess.

“I’ve never had a facial before.”

This is going to be wonderful, Patty says, so take off your shirt. But does she know that you’re the kind of guy who spends Sunday afternoons hunkered down with a pizza and the AFC Game of the Week? Sure, you have a subscription to Vanity Fair, but you still get your hair cut by a guy named Murray.

Lie down, she says, relax.

A hot towel comes first. Then she pinches your cheeks and neck. They’re soft pinches, to check for sensitivity, she says. It feels nice. Nearby, something boils and bubbles--could it be the evil espresso machine? Patty rubs cleansers and moisturizers on her hands.

These concoctions end up on your face, of course, gently smoothed and massaged. Some of them smell strange; one of them tingles. It’s odd to have someone paying so much attention to one part of your body. But it’s OK. Your thoughts begin to drift with relaxation. Or, perhaps, a quick nap.

You wake to more hot towels and an earthy-smelling spray. Pure botanicals, Patty explains. Sounds scientific, but it’s really just flowers. Then she mummifies you in wet tissues. You’re so relaxed that you don’t mind.

The amazing thing is, some people do this once a month. Must be nice. When it’s finished, Patty offers you a roast-beef sandwich. Maybe she senses how out of place you feel.

But there’s no time for lunch. Next comes a manicure and pedicure: As long as you’ve ventured this far into a Ventura Boulevard salon, you might as well go for broke. So Linda plops your feet into soapy water. Cindy starts on your fingernails. She’s just come back from working on a movie set.

Are you ready to share a buffer with Sean Young? she asks.

The manicure-pedicure experience is downright violent compared with a facial. Silvery clippers clip. Wooden sticks jab at the stuff around your nails. Is it dead skin? A green bottle sits on a cluttered table. Botanicals, it reads. Flowers, you think.

Soon you’re in the groove, gabbing with the women, feeling like you should have a copy of Vogue on your lap. You’re talking about television shows, about townhouses. You’re trying to decide if Cindy should polish your nails or just buff them. Car salesmen and bankers like to have their nails polished, she says. You choose the buff.

Then it’s over. A veritable Indy 500 pit stop. A hundred bucks later, you’re out the door and back on the boulevard, feeling moist and powdery. It’s a good feeling, but a little unfamiliar. Like a newly bathed Labrador, you’re looking for some dirt to roll around in.

Isn’t it wonderful? a friend asks later. Of course, she adds, the facial might make your skin break out.

Beg your pardon?

Just a little, she assures. Another friend tells a different story. Volcanic eruptions, he says.

Well, a few days pass and you’re in the clear. Maybe it’s the botanicals.