Waxing Rhapsodic

On the subject of bones, I’ve recently been amused to hear of a spa treatment for softening one’s skin: the paraffin wax bath.

I’ve never been to a spa, but for years I had three wax baths a week—in physio at CARS. Before every session, I’d loosen up my finger joints by dipping my hands in a metal tub of warm wax (seven times, count to ten between dips). The therapist would then slip a plastic bag over each hand and wrap it in a towel, whereupon I’d sit for 20 minutes while the heat did its thing.

The wax smelled of the wintergreen oil they added to keep it from sticking to your skin. After about 10 minutes, the wax would cool and I’d start my ritual of trying to pull my fingers free while keeping the wax gloves intact. The cold wax was clammy and, I think, similar to what a baby must feel sitting in a wet nappy after the first warmth wears off. The wax gloves never survived; even if I’d been able to preserve the mold, once they were removed, the wax was either discarded or tossed back into the hopper to melt again.

My fingertips were always shriveled and to this day I cannot abide oil on my hands, but 40 years later, my skin is still über-soft—to the wrists, anyway.