I might be an esthetician’s worst nightmare. Not because of what’s on the surface—aside from some acne, I have been relatively lucky in the skin department—but because of the worry-powered Rube Goldberg machine that is my mind.

All my life, I’ve been told I have sensitive skin. The clues were there: I have a face full of freckles and a fair, near-translucent complexion prone to sunburn and redness. As a result, I have long been hesitant to do much to my face, and it’s turned me into a bit of a skin-care Luddite.

For example, I have used the same drugstore face wash since I was a tween (Neutrogena Deep Clean, in case you’re wondering). Burned (literally) by one too many sleepover face masks, I now patch test every potential new product on my wrist. I don’t moisturize as much as I should—and when I do, it’s often my mom’s iconic-to-me blue-tin Nivea Creme. I may be in my 20s, but I already feel woefully uninformed about retinol. I wear minimal makeup and follow the doctrine my mom taught me: Wear sunscreen, wash your face, and try not to touch it throughout the day. Aside from that, for years, my skin-care approach has basically been to cross my fingers and hope for the best.

So when I joined Vogue late last year, I had a confession to make to my new colleagues on the beauty team: I had never gotten a facial before. Thus the idea was born, first as sort of a joke and then as reality: I would give it a try and write about the experience (a sweet assignment, indeed).

I reached out to Rescue Spa in downtown New York City on the recommendation of friends and beauty editors alike, and their team set me up with a Danucera Sculpt & Lift facial, which combines a five-step routine and “patented nano-, micro-, and pico-current technology.” I imagined green clay on my face and cucumber slices on my eyelids but was told the real thing could be less movie montage, more war on pores.

I opted for an extraction-free facial for my first go-around. For the uninitiated, extractions are basically a common part of facials in which the practitioner removes the gunk from your clogged pores, either manually or with tools. Even as a skin-care rookie, I had heard stories of extractions that give new meaning to that old adage “beauty is pain.” I thought I’d wade into the water first.

Leading up to the appointment, I was nervous and excited. I had questions: What do you wear to a facial? (I learned that it doesn’t really matter; you’ll likely be taking off your shirt and slipping on a towel so that your face and shoulders are exposed. This half nudity was a bit of a surprise, but ultimately best for comfort and a nice mini shoulder massage). Can you wear contact lenses? (Not recommended, apparently because there’s a risk of cleansers, creams, and oils sticking to your lenses and the steam and water trapping them there, leading to potential infections.)

At a party the night before, I polled my friends for advice. They said to hydrate, so I switched from wine to water. They said it’s normal for your face to be red afterward. And they said next time I should bring them with me.

When it came time, I stepped into the sleek ground-level spa on East 19th Street, feeling like I had found a glamorous secret hideout among the Union Square chaos, a fancy C.O. Bigelow–type pharmacy boutique-slash-spa. I was offered a beverage and taken back to a treatment room, where my very kind and patient esthetician asked about my allergies and medications, and I regaled her with my sensitive-skin spiel.

The facial began with a cleanse, which was honestly one of my favorite parts. The pleasant jelly consistency of the Danucera Cerabalm—part of Rescue founder Danuta Mieloch’s skin-care line—made me feel like wet clay being molded on a potter’s wheel. My esthetician expertly flicked and massaged my skin, playing it like an instrument. There was steam and a heavenly hot towel wrap. She looked at my skin under a lamp and let me know I had “great skin,” though she would recommend extractions another time (fair, I thought).

The microcurrent part of the proceedings—in which she used a machine to send low-level electrical currents through a conductive mask to stimulate my facial muscles—was admittedly a bit intimidating for a first-timer (and the flashes of light and metallic taste in my mouth were unsettling), but I liked the idea of “Pilates for your face.” My esthetician talked me through each step and adapted the treatment to my comfort level, which I appreciated.

Afterward, I left the spa looking a lot dewier than when I’d arrived. I was so moisturized I felt like a slug. I took a selfie and sent it to my mom and sister, who said, “You’re literally glowing!” My mom wrote back that I looked a little “shell-shocked,” not knowing just how spot-on she was.

In the hours and days after, I did feel strangely renewed. Looking at before-and-after selfies, I felt like some of the fine lines on my face had truly been smoothed away by some kind of magic. I also had a searching feeling: Can they tell I’ve joined the club?

What struck me most throughout reporting and writing this story was just how personal beauty and skin care are. How we care for our skin can be a reflection of who we are, and I don’t think I’m alone in the realization that a lot is entangled in those choices: childhood memories, methods passed down from grandmothers, various neuroses and judgments. But before I go full Freud, let me also say: Beauty should be fun and exploratory. After all, we do many of these things to feel good, care for ourselves, and control something when we can’t control much else. If fashion is “the armor to survive the reality of everyday life,” as Bill Cunningham once said, skin care is another line of defense.