Turns out, the Breakover was exactly what I needed. The last few weeks of insomnia, alcohol, and crying jags had wreaked havoc on my skin and hair and nails. I always prided myself on being fairly low-maintenance and fortunately seemed to be able to get away with a more natural look. I wasn’t big into makeup or blowouts, preferring to keep my routine simple. Lately, though, simple wasn’t cutting it. My skin had taken on a lifeless hue, and the bags under my eyes were more than fifty shades of gray.
My Breakover started with a sixty-minute aromatherapy massage using essential oils, followed by a twenty-four-karat gold anti-aging facial and diamond microdermabrasion to remove dead and dry skin.
“After a breakup, when you haven’t been sleeping, and you may have a lot of stress, your skin is really sluggish. It can look puffy, and it loses its pallor, and sometimes its tone,” the aesthetician said, rubbing different serums into my face. “This Vitamin A will bring that healthy dewiness to the skin in the long term and help to heal the skin.” She leaned forward and put pressure on the corner of my eye.
I popped up on my elbows. “Ow! Is a facial supposed to hurt like that?”
“You have a clogged tear duct,” she answered matter-of-factly.
“I do?”
“From crying. It’s not uncommon here, believe me. I just released it. Use a hot compress on the corner of your eye every night this week for fifteen minutes and it will go away completely.”
I settled back down on the table while she finished the treatment. After that, I was given a revitalizing foot scrub using natural sea salt, signature pedicure, and paraffin manicure before the technician led me to the spring water mud pool for detoxification.
I slid into the brown, murky water and sat beside a woman who looked extremely familiar, although I was having a tough time placing her face, especially since both her eyes were covered with cucumber slices.
“I don’t know about you, but this is nothing like what I expected,” the woman said.
“The spa?”
“The Boot Camp. I was imagining group therapy sessions, where we confront our daddy issues and cry about our dysfunctional childhoods, not facials and foot massages.” She popped one of the cucumbers into her mouth, then turned to me and extended her hand. “I’m Zosia.”
“Zosia Barry? Never mind. I’m so sorry—we’re not supposed to pry,” I said.
“You’re not prying. My face has been splashed everywhere lately.”
Zosia Barry was the soon-to-be ex-wife of Richard Barry, CEO of Jungle, the world’s largest e-commerce marketplace. He’d been caught having an affair with his much younger assistant, and the two of them were currently locked in a fierce battle over their billions in assets. News of the Barrys’ impending divorce was the leading headline on every major news outlet.
I sat more upright. “I’m Joanna. It’s nice to meet you.”
She leaned over and cupped my chin in her hands. “You’re such a baby. Are you even old enough to have a broken heart?”
“It’s the diamond microdermabrasion. It took ten layers and ten years off my face.”
She laughed. “Good to know, as that’s my next treatment.” Zosia pulled herself out of the mud pool and used a towel to wipe herself off. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? My soon-to-be ex is off in the Maldives with his new girlfriend, and I’m here working on our relationship. The press has it wrong, you know. I don’t give two shits about the money—the bastard can keep every last cent. What I want is closure. After twenty-nine years of marriage, I think I’m entitled to at least that. Don’t you?”
One of the spa technicians leaned down and whispered, “Ms. Kitt, might I suggest you shower off? Your hair treatment and makeup application start in a half hour.”
I nodded and reached for the towel behind me. “For whatever it’s worth, I do think you’re entitled to at least that,” I said to Zosia.
She smiled and squeezed my arm. “See you later, Joanna.”
I rinsed off and sat down in the stylist’s chair, where he breathed new life into my dull, dry hair, while his assistant taught me how to achieve the most perfect no makeup-makeup look. When he was finished, the stylist reached around the chair and handed me a T-shirt that said, I am currently under construction, thank you for your patience. A large grin broke out across my face.
“There it is, the pièce de résistance,” the makeup artist said. “A smile. You’re a model, right?”
I laughed. “No, I’m only 5’2.”
“Actress, then?”
“I was. A long time ago.”
“I knew it, someone with your bone structure belongs on the stage.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“Kind nothing. I call ’em like I see ’em. Okay, now for the big reveal. Ready?” The stylist swiveled my chair around, so I faced the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I tilted forward to study my face, hardly recognizing my reflection. Not because I looked different, but because for the first time in weeks, I resembled my former self again. The stylist leaned in so we were cheek to cheek. “See, you don’t need a dramatic haircut or overhaul. Nothing makes a woman more beautiful than the belief she is beautiful.”