| He Is A Metrosexual |
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 Story
By Scott Gummer
He is sophisticated and stylish, aware of aesthetics, in tune with trends, and in touch with his feminine side. He cares about appearance, not so much for how others view him but more for how it makes him feel. His leathers match, as do his socks. He shops. He irons. Occasionally he plucks. His paladin is soccer star david beckham, a man's man (married to a spice girl) who's been known to wear in public a pony tail, a sarong, and nail polish-and wear it well. I marched through the gilded gates of the MGM Grand Spa and enlisted for the Metro Men's Package: a Swedish Massage with Cool Scalp Treatment, Aromatherapy Pedicure and Men's Energizing Facial. Men who don't do spas-if only for the sauna, steam, Jacuzzi- are flat out missing out. To my mind, having a massage is more maintenance than indulgence, like changing the oil or cleaning the gutters. Rare is the unsatisfying massage; like barbers, masseuses don't take it personally if you voice your preferences. However, I am guilty of silly machismo in enduring whatever a masseuse can dish out. I once had a Japanese barefoot massage at a swanky spa on Hawaii, expecting a kindly little woman, I instead got a Samoan champion windsurfer who pounded me like abalone. I tried to speak up, but with her heel dug into my diaphragm I could not catch a breath. This day, I did draw a kindly woman masseuse, a lady named Bea with a soothing Caribbean lilt and soft hands. As she began working out my kinks, I asked her thoughts on the benefits of massage. "Relaxation, improved circulation, stress relief," she said. My biggest fear going into any massage is dozing and missing out.
There would be no sleeping once she touched my calves, which were tender from a recent workout. She might as well have been using a putty knife instead of her thumb. I caved, and was happy I did because the rest of the hour was pure Nirvana. Bea showed me the greenish goop she would use for my scalp treatment. I asked if this might prolong the autumn of my hairline, but a deep cleansing of my follicles was the best she could promise. The stuff hardened fast, and I pictured myself with a green helmet á la The Great Gazoo, Fred Flintstone's pint-sized alien genie. My next stop on the MGM Grand Spa tour was a pampering pedicure. As I entered the room I saw the chair. The Lamborghini of La-Z-Boys, it was a naugahyde throne set upon a pedestal with wings and a foot bath to boot. The built-in side tables each sported three receptacles seemingly, made for a beer, a bowl of nachos, and a remote control. "They're for the manicure bowl," said Tracy, the pedicurist assigned to me, shattering the vision. "If you want more men getting pedicures you'll take my advice," I offered, "plus hang a plasma screen with a live feed from the sports book."
Tracy says guys make up a third of her pedicures, though almost all come as part of the Spa's Metro Men's package. I sat back and gradually relaxed as Tracy clipped, filed, soaked, and scrubbed. The intermittent massaging was my favorite part hands (feet?) down. I counted about 75 bottles of nail polish when Tracy threw me off. "Buffed or polished?" Betwixt and between, I opted for buffed. My lotion-slathered feet slipped in my sandals as I followed Kim, my final guide, into the facial room. Kim reassuringly walked me through the process and promoted the healing qualities of copper, which is all the rage in facials.
After a thorough cleansing of my mug, Kim covered my eyes and cranked up the steam to open my pores. Without my vision sounds were magnified. I could hear the clinking of the nefarious tools she would use to probe and prod my face like a seamstress' pincushion. Inspecting me through her brightly lit magnifying glass, I was certain Kim could see through my pores and into my soul. Thankfully, my nightly Noxzema ritual spared me from extensive boring. The extractions were over in a matter of minutes and, at last, I relaxed. So much so, in fact, that I nodded off and caught myself snoring. "No disrespect, Kim," I apologized. "I've just had a long day." As I glided out of the Grand Spa on to the casino floor everything seemed brighter than before. Whether it was the reflection of my newly glowing skin or the radiance of my recharged inner light, I did not know, nor did I care. I took a gamble, bet on myself and walked away a winner.
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