The Ups and Down of Woking at a spa - One mans experience
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The Hard Knocks of Being a Spa Boy
This past summer, after getting rejected by the San Diego Zoo, Costco and a “Christian” bookstore (I’m not bitter), I finally landed a job as a spa concierge at a swanky local hotel. Now it sounds pretty exotic, and I do concede that as summer jobs go, I had it pretty darn easy. But, as I constantly reminded jealous friends with sore joints from jobs in construction and greasy faces from jobs at fast-food chains, this gig wasn’t without its downsides. Sure, I got to maintain the steam room, sauna and Jacuzzi - but never once did I get to go in there. The following list will show you that the life of the spa concierge can get pretty rough sometimes.
Folding. Towels, bathrobes and washcloths - they don’t fold themselves, you know. Yes, it’s mundane and mind-numbing at worst, but I truly think it took a psychological toll on me. I knew it was time to quit when I started threatening inanimate objects exclaiming that I would “fold them to death.”
Making small talk. It’s hard enough in social settings, but it’s a downright thankless task in the spa industry. I’m personally a fan of the humor approach. For some reason, though, male patrons didn’t think it funny when I gently - gently! - teased them about getting a “man”icure. Turns out, they were pretty sensitive about it - almost as sensitive as their hands.
Pretending to know what I’m talking about. I was always thrown for a loop when a guest asked me what a treatment was like. I can’t afford to have ladies slathering me with mud and oil and other nonsense; I’m certainly the wrong person to be asking. So, when I was asked what the traditional massage is like, I employed the thesaurus technique: “It’s very conventional, standard, customary, orthodox”
Naked men everywhere you look. I think savvy employers purposely omit this fact from the job description. Not a day went by that I didn’t think to myself, “That guy is way too naked.” On a scale of immodesty, theses gentlemen ranked just above Madonna and exotic dancers. Whenever I was approached by a nude male, it always caught me off guard, and if he didn’t care enough to hide his business, then I certainly didn’t care to hide my surprise. Multiple episodes like this, however, did result in a strengthened gag reflex. Still, I will never, never become desensitized.
Speech standards. As the employee of an aspiring 5-star spa, I had to speak in a certain way. I couldn’t say “Sup, fool?”- it was, “Good morning, sir. Welcome to the spa.” It wasn’t the bathroom; it was the “vanity area,” which was certainly an apt moniker for all of the mirror-gazing that went on in there. And, it was ”Please let me know if I can get you anything else, sir,” not “Dude, for the sake of everyone’s retinas and long-term memories, get what you got going on down there under control and throw a robe on!”
The ideal concierge, I think, is one who is stoic and willing to humor people (to a point, of course). So, much to my disdain, I had to address the haughty 16-year-old who came in for a massage as “Mr. Robinson” instead of “kiddo,” and I couldn’t tell the customer who got angry because I didn’t know the exact square footage of the spa to shove it. Instead, I took (great) comfort in the fact that there is a big, fat reality check waiting for them in their respective futures. Again, it wasn’t a bad place to work; it was just more challenging than one might think. And, providing that my bosses don’t read this, I hope to be back there for Christmas vacation.
