I look like a lavender Dalmatian, splattered with freckles, invisible to the naked eye. Dry skin shows up in spilled-milk blotches. It’s all bad, with one exception: My teeth are dazzling, like a white shirt under black light. When I win my Oscar, I’ll trump Halle Berry, I’ll thank my dentist.

In the no-frills treatment room, Nicola decides I’m best suited for a vitamin c facial and goes through all the basic steps: inspection, cleansing, steaming, extracting antibacterializing with a fluorescent wand that occasionally sounds like a bug zapper. The subsequent vitamin c infusion treatment is supposed to lighten freckles and reduce lines. Next time in the scanner, I’ll be Snow White. Like all the estheticians, Nicola works closely with Dr. Murad, whose medical offices are above the spa, and has a sound dermatological background.

Although there are fancier treatments to choose from, I follow up with a deep-tissue massage with Margarete, a short, strong therapist with a gray pixie who is dressed in black. She’s got the hands. Margarete kneads my back with Swedish strokes and shiatsu holds until I’m as pliant as unbaked sourdough.