Things you buy through our links may earn Vox Media a commission. A series examining the outer edges of style. My favorite workouts end with quaking muscles and the occasional dry-heave. My ideal weekend activities involve the risk of bodily injury. So when I went to Korea a few months ago, I had to try the V-line facial β a procedure with a reputation for being so painful, it leaves grown women in tears.
When I arrive, the English-speaking receptionist looks appalled. A Westerner, asking for such pain? But all this deterrence just makes me want it more. Someone escorts me to a corner bed far away from other guests. Maybe they expect me to scream? I lie down and my facialist, who is tiny, introduces herself before warning me again that this will be extremely painful. I can take a break at any time, she adds. Then she tucks me under the sheets and slips my legs into sleeves that pump air in and out, giving them a gentle massage.
The pleasant whirring below my waist lulls me into a sense of calm as she begins rubbing my face. Her hands make soft, soothing circles from my forehead down to my neck and further down my chest to my armpits. I feel confident β this is going to be a breeze. Hand over hand, she makes her way up to my cheekbones and over to my temples like a Swedish masseuse. Following the stroking comes the pressing, and this is when it begins to get really gnarly.
She hits all my pressure points, including a particularly sensitive area near my salivary glands, where she pushes so hard that drool pools into my mouth. A tiny puddle accumulates on my right shoulder.
But the worst is yet to come, as she moves to kneading like a physical trainer after a big game. My cheekbones are surprisingly tender, and she goes at them so vigorously that I hear muscle grinding over bone. Blissful relief. I nod in approval, feeling confident that the pain is worth it. Unfortunately, my facialist takes my silence as a sign that I can handle even more pressure on the right side.
