Before visiting My Oasis Spa in Whittier, CA, my girlfriend and I attended the Women's March in LA to protest our new garbage president. There were many clever protest signs at the march, but one that especially caught my attention read quite simply, "Wow. This Sucks."
I wish that I had that sign while I was visiting My Oasis Spa in Whittier, CA.
"I'm sorry. I took us to a murder spa," my girlfriend said as we filled out our pre-massage paperwork. She had just returned from the restroom, whose wet floor and flickering lights led her to believe that we would likely have to solve some sort of riddle that involved sawing off our own limbs to escape with our lives. She was not far off.
A bearish golem with tattoo sleeves emerged from the dark recesses of the office and asked me if I had any problem areas. Whenever I catch myself making assumptions about a person based on first cursory glances, I try to leave room for the possibility that I am wrong. "Maybe this man is a massage prodigy," I thought. "Maybe his hands are magic and I am prejudiced."
Saucy, upbeat samba filled the air as his hard, meaty cudgels aimlessly pawed my oily back flesh. There was relaxing ambient music in the waiting room, but once we got onto the massage tables, it was apparently time to party. Some sort of Edith Piaf dance remix thumped in our brains while my girlfriend's masseuse asked her if she was ok for the twenty-third time. "You have to do his arms," she scolded to my masseur. "I already did them," he replied, like a child insisting that he had already completed his homework. He then did my arms--like a child who had lied about having already completed his homework.
Then we got back scrubs, because that's a thing.
After our scrubs, my masseur left and another woman took his place. I believe she was the owner. It was time for our facials. The music stopped. "Sorry, he doesn't give very good massages, does he? He's new," she laughed. This statement was perplexing for reasons so obvious and plentiful that I still try not to think about it too much or my brain will make hurt bad.
Being inexperienced in the matter, I wasn't sure if what I was receiving was typical of a facial or not. I was, however, quite certain that I did not enjoy it. "Do women like this? Am I that out of touch?" I wondered, as she rubbed both sides of my nose like she was trying to make a snake out of play-doh. I was relieved when my girlfriend confirmed that being vigorously smacked with product and wiped with wet paper towels while the employees argue was not, in fact, a typical experience. At this point, the woman over my girlfriend ceased her refrain of "are you ok?" and skipped right to "I'm so sorry." So were we.
We collected our shame clothes and went to the front desk to pay. "So it was $150 right?" the owner asked. My girlfriend reminded her it was $115 when they spoke on the phone. "Well, it's usually $136" she said. My girlfriend reminded her it was $115 when they spoke on the phone. "Oh right!"
In attempting to do the right thing for their efforts, she inquired about adding a tip to the credit card bill. The owner said that would be fine and added it to the total. There was no line for the tip--it was just added to the total amount with no indication that she would give any of the tip to the employees. Why would she? She apparently doesn't even think they are good at their jobs, which she hired them for.
My Oasis Spa is a truly bewildering abuse to the senses that leaves its patrons feeling like many leaving Los Vegas--disappointed, confused, and greasier than they'd like to be. The well-meaning employees were nice, but obviously have no instruction on how to serve the public. Save yourself, and spend elsewhere. read more