The Most Aggressive Facial I’ve Ever Had
And I’d do it again (I’ve already booked back in, actually).
And I’m writing this newsletter to tell you about it – because I can’t stop thinking about it. And that’s saying something, coming from a mildly jaded beauty journalist of over 15 years.
I’ve had facials to beat the band, and so many of them are standard, perfectly lovely, instantly forgettable – nothing to write home about. But oh, am I going to write about this one. I’m going to write about it big time.
Picture this: I’m in a dimly lit room, tucked into a very comfortable bed, in a very chic spa - and the therapist is beating my face. And I mean that quite literally.
“There are over 400 individual massage movements in this treatment,” she says, as her forearms forcefully grip the side of my head and her hands pull my jawline up to meet my scalp. No shit, I think.
This goes on for what feels like hours. Muscles are released from parts of my face I didn’t even know existed, my skin is pinched, rolled, pressed and pulled - and then – just when I think we might be coming to the end, because the pummelling seems to be tapering off – she announces, “Now, it’s time for the peel.”
And not just any peel – a 20% glycolic acid peel that feels mildly irritating moments after she brushes it onto my skin. “Just a few more minutes,” she says after I politely express my discomfort through gritted teeth. “You’ll be fine.”
Fine I wasn’t, but on it went. Pummelling of the neck and shoulders started while the peel did its thing – a distraction technique, perhaps, but a good one, in fairness. At this point, I’m concerned that the treatment will never end, that the burning will never stop, but then suddenly it’s over. I’m up, staring in the mirror, and my face doesn’t know what puffiness is, my eyebrows are halfway up my forehead, my cheekbones have never been higher, and my skin has never been glowier. And then the two magic words escape my lips: “Jesus Christ.” And I know, in that moment, this is one for the books.
The almost religious-level results were confirmed two hours later at dinner with colleagues, when one of them exclaimed, while gawking at my face: “Holy shit, your skin!” And I think, yes. I’ll be doing this again (and again).
The “facial” in question is the Magistrale Treatment by Codage Paris – available in several places across the globe, and now at the exceptional Velveare Spa inside The Radisson Blu Royal Hotel in Dublin (where I went).
It’s 90 minutes of vigorous, borderline violent rejuvenation for the bargain price of €195 (or €160 in November and December). The brand themselves describe it as “a cellular workout for the skin” – and they’re not wrong.
My skin never looked better. And the results lasted for weeks. Absolutely unheard of.
It’s unforgettable, unrelenting, unmissable. Which is why I’m writing about it here, and why I’m booked back in again in the New Year. If you’re in Dublin, or anywhere near a Codage Paris spa that offers it – book it. Book it now.
You might regret it a little. But your face won’t.
Want to read more?
Just booked it 😅
Looks amazing!