A HoH Goes to the Spa

When talking about hearing loss and its impact on our lives, we usually discuss the meaningful issues such as communication access at work, how it affects our family interaction, accepting it as a reality in our lives.  Important, life-changing stuff.

But accessible mani-pedis?  There’s not much in the respectable hearing loss literature about how communication issues affect the more trivial pursuits of life, such as spa treatments–and I don’t expect this blog will do much to change that.  (A mani-pedi, for those not familiar with the red-hot culture of the ‘fast-food’ spa world, is a manicure-pedicure done faster and at a fraction of the price charged in traditional salons, etc.)

I’m not too shallow a person; I devote at least a little time every day to pondering world events and the quest for human rights, even if it’s just watching the news.  But I also believe that if a woman (or man) wants to have a manicure or a facial or a massage, she shouldn’t feel guilty or fluffy.  In fact, she should be congratulated for taking care of her health; a massage helps to relax us and smooth the knots of a stressful lifestyle.  Our hands will remain supple and our feet will thank us in the years to come for keeping them callous-free.

And our faces?  Let’s not beat around the bush—women of a certain age have wrinkle issues. Am I supposed to wear them with pride, as badges of honor of a life well lived?  Fine, I can do that, but I don’t like them much and would rather erase them.  But it’s a losing battle—wrinkles, or wrinkies as I call them, develop regardless of how much kale you eat or whether you smile more than you frown. (And people with hearing loss frown a lot; those between-the-eyes wrinkies are a testimony to how hard we work to speechread or follow a conversation.) What’s worse–wrinkies are contagious.  When one of them finds a good home on your face, it sends up smoke signals and before you know it, all the other wrinkies have moved in—a wrinkie colony that just keeps growing.  A woman can’t prevent this from happening, but she can still try her best to look her best.

And if all these reasons aren’t justification enough, consider this: When we buy spa goods and services, we are helping to boost employment and the economy. Still, it’s a communication challenge every time I go to the spa.

The mani-pedi is not so bad—as long as the manicurist, who is often a young Asian woman with a soft voice, doesn’t ask me any questions that I haven’t anticipated.  “You like nails round or square?”  “Is the water too hot?” When I explain my hearing loss, saying that I can’t understand when they talk to my toes, they ignore me after that.  Because really, what’s to talk about?  I just relax and watch the TV, which, if I’m lucky, has captioning large enough to read from 20 feet away.  The last place I went, the captioning font was about 1/16″ high, and the words were bunched in the middle of the screen, often over the actor’s face.

Unless communication issues are addressed at the beginning of the appointment, massages and facials can be a less than relaxing experience for the spa-goer with hearing loss.  They involve darkened rooms and lying in positions that make speechreading impossible.  In a facial, you lie on your back and the masseuse stands behind your head.  In order to speechread without anyone having to shift position, you would have to arch your neck, roll your eyes back as far as possible without popping them, and then speechread upside down.  Better to explain the hearing loss to the esthetician, who will then explain what she’s going to do to you.  That way, because you’ve taken off your hearing technology and your eyes are supposed to be closed, you’ll know what’s coming and there’s less of a shock when hot steam or freezing glop hits your face.

When I explain my hearing loss to the massage therapist, we work out some signals: she pats me on the arm to tell me to turn over or to let me know it’s all over.  My hearing aids come out for massages, too.  Makes it easier when my head is facing the floor through the face hole, and prevents feedback when her hands go for my neck. The downside of this lack of sensory input: I can get drowsy and if I’m paying $100 for a massage, I damn well want to be awake for it.  If the masseuse is aggressive and attacks stubborn muscles with force,  this not only keeps me alert, but I have to work hard not to whimper.  Maybe I do make noises, but can’t hear myself without hearing aids.

I’ve only had one communication-nightmare spa treatment.  For some insane reason, I agreed to a new type of facial that involved encasing my face in a hard mask. My entire face was covered, with padding over the rest of my head and ears and only a straw to breathe through.  I could hear and see nothing. I was completely deprived of any means of communication, expressed or received, except for touch.  We had arranged that she would pat my arm when she entered or left the room, but I had neglected to work out a hand signal for “get me the hell out of here!’  Eventually the mask was cut off my face, but my stress had completely wiped out any erasing effects  the facial might have had on my wrinkies.

Spas are service-oriented; it’s a competitive business that is devoted to client wellness.  All we have to do is let them know how to communicate with us.  And then relax.