I was 13 the last time I had a facial. I was tailing my mum, trying it out because she was. The Lab, with its minimalist, white-washed interiors and vibrant native flowers, is a far cry from the chic-yet-fairly-sterile beauty spas I saw as a young girl. It’s cool here.
Subscribe now for unlimited access.
$0/
(min cost $0)
or signup to continue reading
In the Manuka space, Canberrans chat away as they have their brows sculpted by The Lab's skin specialists, who are, of course, radiant.
The Lab, formerly known as The Brow Lab, recently launched a range of skin treatments. So I'm there for something a little wilder than a brow session: an enzyme therapy masque.
While a brow wax might be a snack, this treatment is a five-course meal, baby. I'm warned it will feel "incredibly unusual" on the skin.
The masque was created by skincare brand Danné Mongue-King and has been referred to as the Game of Thrones facial. It's made beauty news because it's said to strengthen capillaries, clear toxins, and stimulate the skin's natural collagen production - but also because it looks exquisitely terrifying.
I begin by filling out a form on my skin concerns, history and lifestyle. Naturally, I lie about how much water I consume, and skin specialist Zoe and I chat. Her ability to recall skincare ingredients with 35-letter names is a revelation.
Soon I'm supine on the massage table and my face is being gently cleansed. I want to fall asleep.
A low-level LED light is placed over me for 15 minutes, which is said to increase blood flow and reduce spots and scarring. For this procedure, I'm given headphones to listen to a guided meditation. It's a nice touch.
The next step is a meditative exercise on its own. It’s the 45-minute masque. Thankfully, headphones are pulled over my trusting head and I'm given access to my phone. It's selfie time.
The smell of the masque is like nothing of this world (or Westeros). There’s a real stench to it.
None of the products used during the treatment are scented. And golly does it make sense not to have scents. Why do our faces need to smell like grapefruit anyway? There's simply no need.
Before the application of the masque, I'm warned of the tightness and pulsing sensation. It sounded truly erotic.
As a face-masque fan, I'm used to this tightening sensation, but the pulsing soon threatened to upend everything I knew about modern skincare.
How do I put this into words? The masque felt as if it were a living being. It rippled across my skin, vibrating over my cheeks, like one of the Xenomorph hatch-and-attack scenes in Alien.
My skin specialist came to check on me and, using my hands, I attempted to convey that all was peachy. I felt like an actor on The Bold and the Beautiful - my constricted face revealed not a wink of emotion.
Soon enough, the masque was coming off. Freedom! A facial brush, with soft fibres plucked from the tail of Pegasus, was used to delicately cleanse off the masque. It felt as though Zoe was Da Vinci, painting me, her soon-to-be Mona Lisa.
The pulsing sensation of the masque did actually make the process feel as though I was being birthed through the devil’s butt. Which is funny, because when I emerged I had returned to an infant-like state.
Well, my skin had. My derm was firm - soft, supple, smooth to the touch. And strangely plump, too.
The success of the session revealed itself when I visited my 20-month-old nephew straight afterwards. I no longer felt inadequate in the presence of him and his intimidatingly fresh skin, because now, I looked younger than him*.
*only by a year.
Visit the-lab.com.au for a list of treatments. Serena Coady was a guest of The Lab.
