The Time The Pruned Finger Beckoned to Me

My friends and I share six-word memoirs, which are supposed to be stories in a nutshell. This was the one I wrote yesterday: “Naked, I paraded through the jimjilbang.” I sent this stingy, six-word sentence out to them with no further explanation. Let them wonder. But for you, I’ll flesh it out: I recently visited a Korean bathhouse, and here’s a crash course in all things jimjilbang.

***

There’s a spirited, hot tempo in the air when I walk into the ladies’ locker room. Females in the buff are everywhere. Different body sizes, skin colors, amounts of body hair. Steam envelops the room. I’m told it’s scented with mugwort, which is claimed to be hallucinogenic. That may come in handy. Body dysmorphia could be a problem here. I’m not immune and often harshly judge my reflection in the mirror. Being slightly out of my head because of some herb with the unfortunate name of mugwort may be just the ticket.

***

There’s a pattern at the jimjilbang. You can’t miss it. Over there? Those ladies are being prepped for a chai-yok, a hip bath. A dozen females sit on benches with sweaty faces. Their heads poke out of blushing pink human-sized shower dresses. Soon, they’ll hover over vented seats in the name of coming clean, down in their nethers. It seems to be a type of gynecological fumigation. I take a hard pass since it’s my first time here. Chai-yok strikes me as graduate-level. I’m a newbie freshman today. Next visit? Then, maybe I’ll be open.

***

There’s flow to the world of the jimjilbang. A swarm of nudity is everywhere. I strip completely, stow my clothes in a locker and look around at everyone else, trying not to break the five-second rule for staring. My thoughts butt into each other. Meh, as expected. But also: The female form is beautiful. The various body types, all folds and features, create an arresting tableau, moist and shiny. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. There is much to appreciate. My own skin is breathing now. My pores open, can I feel that kind of thing? Our choices here include massages, reflexology, saunas, and cozy yurt-sized rooms for relaxing. Female friend groups are everywhere. I overhear one woman say to another: “It’s Lucifer time.” They grab bowls of ice cubes and head into the cedar-lined dry sauna room. I grab my ice and follow. Acceptance is the norm here. Maybe the low light helps, but my mood lifts as I notice a youthful girlfriend vibe in the sauna. A young woman tells me, “Breathe through your nose. Use the ice here.” She’s holding dripping cubes at her temples while taking impressive and deep, lung-filling inhales. I have a revelation. It’s not about how the chest, breast, nose, skin, or anything on the surface looks. It’s all about how it does. Wow. Inhale. Exhale. Is there extra mugwort in the sauna steam? I pinch ice cubes between my wrinkled fingertips then smooth the ice around my chest. The melting runoff drips down and mixes with my sweat.

***

There’s an extra pulse of energy around me now. Leaving the sauna, I pad across the tile to the distant side of the room to rinse in the rain bath shower. I’m stark naked, and yes, it feels weird to experience this ‘parading about naked’ moment that I’ll write about later. In the shower, my peace with the present starts to become fogged with worries of the future. I have an appointment for seshin. The seshin, also called the body shampoo, is the centerpiece treatment of spas like this; some would claim it is the core reason to come to a Korean bathhouse. It works like this: after my long soaks and saunas, I’ll be assigned to a ddemiri, or scrub mistress, who will take my skin to task. A songwol is involved. In fact, she’ll wear a pair of songwols—bristly hand mitts—to exfoliate my dead skin. Dead skin equals unwanted skin in these parts. I nervously wait for my turn to be scrubbed. I’ve read that it hurts. I can see a half dozen other ladies getting the seshin treatment in a side room. One particular ddemiri, weathered and wrinkled and wearing a scowl, seems ferocious. Her songwols circle nonstop, carwash-like, over a client’s body. The client seems to press herself down, trying to be small on the vinyl massage table. I hope I don’t get that ddemiri. The woman finishes and wetly smacks the client a few times on the back. The client slides off the table and hurries away to the shower. I’m worried. Yet, I remind myself of the seshin’s benefits: clean and clear skin, better circulation, a healthy glow.

***

There’s a climax to the jimjilbang experience. It is the seshin. My time has arrived. “Miss?” I look up. The scowling ddemiri beckons me with one long pruned finger. Women are lazing all about. I look around the room hoping the finger is intended for another. But, no. I know an invite when I see one. For the next thirty minutes, I’m scrubbed within an inch of my life. All sides, all places, the cracks, cervices. I grit my teeth at the pain of the ultra-abrasive songwol. It never feels good. But after a while, it stops being terrible. Pills of my dead skin lie on the table beside me, like unfortunate soggy rice. I shudder at the sight of it. When I get the damp towel slap that signals the end to my seshin, I gratefully slide off the table to hit the shower.

***

There’s a rhythm to a day at the jimjilbng. Mine has slowed. Post-seshin, another long soaking shower is my reward. Pure. It’s a distant word for a sixty-year-old, but it’s there in my mind. Something pure and good has soaked in. It’s directed toward me, toward the others, even to my ddemiri. Clean, I’m so clean! I get dressed and smooth my damp hair walking past the mirrors without a glance. My baby-like skin tingles outside in the fresh air and sunlight. As I walk to my car, I create a new six-word memoir in my mind:

“Parading in fresh skin, I’m human.”

-Pamela Zendt

Pamela Zendt lives in Atlanta and works at the Sandy Springs Mission, a Latino after-school program. She is a graduate student at Kennesaw State University, a cyclist and a lover of peace on Earth for all 365 days of the year.