Tight Clinic Brazilian Lymphatic Drainage Massage

My relationship with my physiotherapist is so precious and evolved that we no longer talk about my exercises or how my ankle has progressed beyond the first five minutes of every 30-minute check up. We save the good, material stuff for after these pleasantries. I long to hear about where she’s gone out for drinks, the time she got COVID (at a bar in March), and whatever beauty product or service she’s purchased recently. We discuss politics and COVID, books she’s reading, and her friendships. She’s taught me about her Botox and facials but most crucially, she has introduced me to Brazilian Lymphatic drainage massage. It can be done to your body or face and there are only a few spas in our city that perform it, and even fewer that are doing it well. 

A byproduct of my aging is the genesis of a constant fear of missing out. A decidedly solitary FOMO where I want to undergo every novel beauty, wellness, or relaxation treatment that our big city has to offer. If one of my friends has tried Botox, I want to try Botox. If only for the opportunity to talk about it and knowing what it feels like. Is it ridiculous to only want to experience something novel because of the ability to confidently speak about it at parties? Yes, obviously. Does that deter me in any way? No, obviously not. 

I could spend my life chasing the high of experiencing a new after-school activity that I haven’t yet tried. Aerial yoga, which on paper sounds like the worst thing in the world to me, appeals simply because I don’t know anyone who’s done it. Maybe this should be telling me something. I don’t care, though. I’m enamoured by a concert, a restaurant, a spa, a walking trail, an experience, a feeling that I haven’t felt before. Even bad emotions that I haven’t felt yet ring around my brain so hard that I can’t help but mistake them for something exciting and new. Mistake being the operative word here. 

If I haven’t yet done it, then I’m having fun. This applies tenfold to beauty treatments. Living in a city, with gorgeous women who seem, to me at least, desperate to keep up with beauty trends, there’s no shortage of boutique spas or beauty companies that tempt me to experiment with their services. 

During one of our many conversations on the topic of beauty trends, my physiotherapist mentioned being a bridesmaid for her best friend’s wedding (same), and how the bride gifted her with a treatment for a facial at this cool spot downtown. Apparently, the clinic was so exclusive that it was almost impossible to reserve an appointment unless you knew someone who worked there, had already had a treatment with them, or there was a cancellation in their fully booked months in advance calendar. Intrigued, I demanded to know more. I needed to go to the establishment to undergo this lymphatic drainage myself even though I had just learned of its existence. I didn’t know anything about the process or how dangerous it was. I didn’t care. At my grown age of 32, the intersections of my interests are niche beauty treatments and potentially putting my health at risk to experience something “new”. 

While I tried for weeks to find an opening in their schedule, I resigned myself to the fact that my face would go Brazilian Lymphatic drainage-free until I figured out when they dropped their new openings. Would I ever clinch one if the same patients kept coming back week after week? After months of back-to-back bookings, they stopped showing any available time slots. It felt like their website was telling me to give up.

One day, on my streetcar ride home, I visited their booking website on my phone while standing up against a pole. To my surprise, they had an opening at 11 a.m. that Saturday morning. Not only was I not doing anything that day, but I made plans that night where I could show off the results of my treatment to my friends and brag about getting into Tight Clinic’s club of exclusivity. I booked the $195 +tax and tip treatment and felt high the rest of the ride home. 

I wasn’t sure of what I was getting into but I told anyone who would listen about my upcoming appointment for my massage. I researched online which only served to confuse me further about the process. Because it was happening to my face, would I have to take off my top? Yes. Would they be using massage oils on my skin? Also yes. Would it be a formative experience that made me feel great for the remainder of the week? Yes and yes. 

The morning of my appointment, I woke up early expecting my life to change. I became a person who received nonsurgical, non-invasive facial treatments to combat, I don’t know, swollen capillaries, bloating, and being someone who drinks alcohol on weekends. I showed up insanely early to the appointment.

As I arrived at the clinic, I remembered the instructions to head to the side-door entrance leading to their downstairs, basement floor, despite the front door facing the street looking like the obvious entrance to the building. I would later learn that the upstairs entrance was for injectables like Botox and Juviderm filler. Those people had it so nice. 

The basement was dark, as the only light came through the window in the door leading upstairs to the street. I entered to soft music playing and a woman working in a closed-off room. There was an empty reception desk so I sat down next to it. I noticed a mini fridge with flavoured Flow alkaline water in it and a Spotify playlist softly playing acoustic versions of top 40 songs. Nice.

Shortly after settling in my seat, with 15 minutes to spare, the registered massage therapist came out of her appointment and asked me if I needed to use the bathroom. When I said yes, and after I returned, a new woman was sitting at the reception desk while the RMT cleaned up after her last client. The desk woman was gorgeous, young, and immediately engaged me by asking if I was the 11 o’clock appointment and if I had been there before. When I mentioned that I hadn’t, her eyes grew big and she gasped: “You’re going to LOVE Cynthia.” I looked into the room where the RMT was changing the sheets on the massage table. I asked the front desk woman about herself and she casually mentioned that she was the owner of the clinic. She saw a gap in the beauty market in Toronto (rare, international beauty treatments that were only being performed by registered doctors at a huge markup), and she filled it. She recounted her experience with Brazilian Lymphatic Drainage massage and how it changed how she viewed beauty treatments and how they could help other women like us. She had flown in a specialist from Brazil to teach her clinic’s RMTs how to do it to her specifications. They weren’t getting it right until this Brazilian expert arrived. I was instantly in love with her. She was the definition of a delight. You know when you meet someone and it’s like stars shoot out of their eyes? That was what she was like. I tried to be cynical about her enthusiasm but it was infectious and I just wanted to stay talking with her for the rest of my appointment time. 

Soon, my RMT finished prepping the cave-like massage room and she brought me inside. She asked me to take my top off and mentioned that I could keep my bra on if I wanted but should avoid the straps if I could. I figured it would be easier and more comfortable to remove it completely but I mistakenly wore jeans thinking that the massage might happen on a chair, sitting upright. It was weird letting myself into the gap in the sheets on the massage table in my “outside pants” but I got over it. Next time I’ll know to wear either just my underwear or at least comfortable sweatpants. 

She sanitized then oiled up her hands and started gently rubbing my face in a circular motion. The massage took turns I wasn’t expecting but the gist of it was like a workout for your face. Like Face Gym. She drew circles around my forehead and cheeks. She did that flipping her index and middle finger upward move along my jawline and above my mouth. She massaged my neck and shoulders and most alarmingly, she put gloves on and asked me to open my mouth as wide as I could to comfortably let her fingers in. It was bizarre but it felt great and opened up my face. The entire process was 45 minutes long but the time flew. It’s not the massage you pass out midway through, you do have to be present and involved in the movements being done. 

My favourite part was when I left to pay. The lady I had met earlier was gone and was replaced by someone new sitting at the reception desk. She asked me how the treatment went and when I casually mentioned loving it and feeling 100% better than when I walked in, and that I was curious about the body version of the same massage, she said that they dropped a new set of appointments that morning. It was my lucky day. I asked her to set me up with a time in December to come back for an hour to undergo the body version of the Brazilian Lymphatic drainage massage. When we couldn’t pay using my card in the downstairs unit, she suggested we walk upstairs to the injectables part of the clinic. I hopped into my shoes and out their front door, excited to see what the other side had access to. 

When we entered the upstairs, it looked like a regular house with a large walkway. A dog greeted me at the top of the stairs, wagging its tail excitedly. Even he made a good first impression. We walked into a lobby area on the landing of the staircase and three people, two new and one the lady I had met earlier were deep in conversation about their weekends. They nodded at me and the woman I had met immediately stopped her conversation and said loudly so everyone could hear: “You look SNATCHED. You look amazing.” and I have never been more complimented in my LIFE. I blushed through my already rosy cheeks. The people she was with immediately nodded their heads in agreement. She asked me to look in the mirror behind her and when I did, realized she was right, I did look snatched. I was jolted.

I took my credit card out of my wallet and immediately shoved it at the woman taking the payment. After a few tries, the woman next to the salon owner announced that she knew what was wrong and she would fix the machine for us. I paid and the owner asked me what my plans were for the rest of the day and if I wanted to take a sample face mask home. She said I could put it on for 20 minutes, have a glass of wine, and relax for the night. I couldn’t have thought of a more perfect, fitting evening to follow the morning I just had. I paid my bill, said my goodbyes, and tried to absorb the high resolution energy that I felt as I walked down the staircase to their entryway. As I left, I heard them continue their conversation and laugh. I envied their closeness. I walked out into the cold sunlight, knowing I would be back soon.