I have just had three beauty treatments in the last three weeks.  ‘Lucky creature,’ the nicer ones amongst you will say.  ‘Obviously needed it,’ the less charitable ones will mutter.

But this was not sheer self-indulgence, this was genuine research. A few years ago (might still be the case, I don’t know), every hotel in the USA had a spa section where, for the equivalent price of a small sea-going yacht, you could get a facial, a massage, a steam-bath, etc.  It was the Done Thing. I was travelling through the US at the time and – the whole idea of facials and spa treatments being new to me – I couldn’t understand what the fuss was about.  You lie dishabille on a rumpty-tumpty table, under a thick towel just too short to cover your cold feet, listening to whales singing in the distance, while someone smacks you in the face with slimy goo.  They wipe it off as if they are cleaning a baby’s bottom, and then rub something gritty into your skin until they have drilled down to the bone.  Next they slather on something oily with their fingertips, excavating in ever-diminishing circles until they reach the back of your head.  Perhaps some reconstruction work is required, using hissing steam and quick-dry cement.  The beautician might be tempted to pluck an eyebrow or two, and that process, instead of being a quick tug of ouch, resembles the early bird thoughtfully extracting the worm. Interspersed with this is some bright and superficial chit-chat in which they tell you how they are doing this job to earn money because school is, like, so expensive, y’know?.  And are you going to give them their tip in cash or can they add it to the bill? The problem with American spas, as I began to understand it, was that some hotels were adding them on to the accommodation because of a perceived customer demand and then staffing them with college students who, with a minimum of training, were only doing the job to earn pocket money.  (Maybe I’m being uncharitable to the Americans, maybe not.) Anyway, that experience put me off facials and spa treatments for a long time.  I just didn’t see the point. But two of the recent treatments have completely revised my opinion and shown me that a facial and massage, in the right hands, is a thing of wonder and delight. Ghost Mountain Inn, that four-star hotel that has become the must-stop-over spot in Zululand, was the site of the first one.  Their trained beauty therapist Betsy gave me a face-mapping which was useful because I now know I am dehydrated (when I actually just thought I was grumpy) and some very nice little packets of samples to start my own beauty routine.  Actually – tip to other spas:  handing out a little ‘starter pack’ as a gift is incredibly good marketing… All facials are effectively the same, but the difference comes in the professionalism of the therapist, the light touch, the way you look and feel afterwards.  And after being under Betsy’s nimble ministrations, I felt like Joan Collins.  The facial was soothing, extremely pleasant and devastatingly effective – in fact the only downside of a  successful facial is that everyone is so complimentary about your glowing appearance afterwards that you wonder uneasily how raddled you must have looked beforehand.  It was not long afterwards that I found myself at five-star Hotel Izulu in Ballito under the friendly attentions of their masseuse.  I had been offered a massage and had wondered – being newly converted to facials – whether I should ask for a facial instead but then decided that perhaps the rest of the body also needed some work. When I arrived at the Hotel Izulu’s Impilo Spa, I gave my masseuse a dubious look – she was about four foot tall and looked as if she would be blown over by a sneeze.    Surely she had back-up? I wondered. But once she got going on the massage I felt like a grizzly bear scratching itself in the woods.  This was not a little scrap of nothing patting me ineffectually, it felt as if she had a team of sumo wrestlers hidden behind a curtain who came out when my eyes were closed to do roller-skating on my back. A skilful massage can turn you to jelly.  So when I tottered out of Impilo I was as limp as cooked spaghetti, and completely relaxed for the whole weekend.  As a recent convert, I can heartily endorse the ritual of the spa, and I would unhesitatingly recommend it. Oh, and the third beauty treatment?  Well, that was my daughter, who offered me a facial to earn some pocket money.  It was rather – well, different.  I ended up with a mouthful of grit from an enthusiastic exfoliation and the occasional finger in the eye when her mind wandered.  But apart from that, it was most pleasant.  The rash is almost gone, the bruises will soon fade, and a good wash will get the masque out of my hair.