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I am lying on my back on a tall table, eyes closed. Warm wax is spread just above my eyebrows, soon replaced by the gentle pressure of small strips of cloth being applied to the wax.

It feels wonderful.

"You know, Oprah says that waxing your eyebrows is like getting a budget face-lift. You're going to look younger when we're finished," says the woman behind me.

And then, without warning, she grabs the end of the cloth and pulls.

Within a second, hundreds of tiny hairs that have been a part of my face for years now find themselves rudely ripped from their home. They dangle helplessly from small pieces of linen before being tossed into the wastebasket.

I almost jump and run but remember that my hair is soaking wet and wrapped in plastic. If I run now, the owner will probably chase me into the parking lot to get her towel back and demand payment.

I certainly don't want to make the afternoon news, and so I grit my teeth as the warm wax permeates my other brow. I reach up to rub my now naked eyebrows as pain shoots into my eye.

This is what women do for fun? This is what pampering feels like?

I find myself in this predicament thanks to the well-meaning advice of a friend.

"You should pamper yourself more," she said. "You've worked hard on your diet, and you deserve a reward. There's this great little day spa where you get to be Princess for a Day. After taking care of three kids and working like you do, this is a perfect way to celebrate sticking to your diet. It's a reward without calories!"

Princess for a Day? Instead, I have two smarting eyebrows, water dripping in my eyes and a young woman asking me personal questions while she mercilessly plucks hair after hair from my brows.

If she doesn't stop soon, I'm going to have to learn how to use an eyebrow pencil to draw my brows back in. If this is what it's like to be a princess, remaining a frumpy housewife is sounding better all the time.

The young woman finally deems my eyebrows acceptable and leads me to a chair that tilts back into a sink. I sit down as another employee pulls up a recliner for my legs, and I actually let out a sigh as warm water flows over my head.

Fingers massage and tug through my long hair. This is better, I decide. I like this part. No fighting with four other people for enough warm water to rinse out the shampoo and no crazy balancing act as I try to cram under the kitchen's sprayer without losing my footing below.

A new treatment is applied to my hair, the plastic and towel returned, and I am led to yet another station. I am helped into a large, vibrating chair and drop my feet into warm, bubbling water. I recline as much as possible and actually doze. I begin to feel guilty for doubting my friend's advice.

"Ready for your pedicure?" I sit up with a start to see a woman seated below me, a small table nearby laden with sharp metal tools and what look like limestone rocks. She lifts one foot from the water, examines my heels and begins to "tsk" her tongue while shaking her head.

"You walk barefoot, don't you?" she accuses. I nod. "How can you expect to have pretty feet if you don't keep them protected?" she asks, but it is obvious she doesn't really want me to answer. "You should always wear shoes or at least socks. And these nails, they really shouldn't be trimmed like this."

A colleague walks in, and the two commiserate about what a job my feet will be. New chemicals are poured as I endure a series of tools pushing, prodding, cutting and trimming the skin and nails on feet that until now were only used for walking, certainly not as objects of beauty.

I imagine that the pedicure is almost complete when the woman grabs a stone from her table and begins sawing on the bottom of my heels.

It is at this moment that I realize she is methodically destroying all of the layers of skin that allowed me to walk barefoot on hot asphalt. No longer will I be able to run out to the mailbox without hunting down my shoes.

Getting the afternoon paper will now require a search for my flip-flops. She scrubs some more, and soon my poor feet look as naked as my eyebrows.

She finally sends me back to the sink for yet another rinse of my hair. For two more hours I endure all the pampering required to become Princess for a Day.

My fingers and toes are perfectly sanded and polished. My hair is shiny and smooth. And my eyebrows are a lovely half-moon shape.

I look in the mirror and imagine a small tiara floating above my perfectly coifed hair.

I am pulling the keys from my purse when I hear the cashier say,

"Is that a stray hair I see above your left eyebrow? Wait right here while I get someone!"

I turn and run for the parking lot.

I've had all the pampering I can survive for one day.