Taiwan Today

Yunlin, central Taiwan, nearly half a century ago. A mother puts a soft cotton thread between her teeth, pulls it tight with her fingers, and gently starts to pluck away the soft down on her daughter’s face. Her heart aches at the thought that tomor­row her eighteen-year-old daughter will be married and will move to a faraway place, but somehow she manages to keep her tears in check and hold the thread taut. This is the first time she has given her daughter a traditional Chinese facial. As the thread sweeps to and fro the girl experiences a few twinges, not unlike mosquito stings. Sit­ting so close together, face to face, their knees touching, mother and daughter share this last precious moment of intimacy before they are separated. And it is neces­sary, for when the groom proposed mar­riage he paid a “facial fee,” symbolizing the hope that his bride would be happy and beautiful ever afterwards.

That daughter’s name was Chang Chin-Ii (張金麗). She learned the art of doing a facial at her mother’s knee, just as her mother had learned it from her own mother. Chang vaguely imagined that one day she would pass this skill on to her daughter. She never thought that she would come to make a living out of it in an era when this traditional skill was fading away, leaving her as one of Taiwan’s few remaining facial specialists.

The scene shifts to the sidewalk of a busy thoroughfare in Shihlin, a northern Taipei suburb, where a line of banyan trees does little to deaden the noise of the traf­fic rushing by. Forty-eight years after her wedding, Chang Chin-Ii squats on a small stool outside a Roman Catholic church and does facials—not for her daughter, but for paying customers. Five other old women, each with a background similar to her own, are squatting near her and plying the same trade.

According to Chang, customers can be anywhere between five and eighty years old. The tradition that a woman could not do facials until after she was betrothed has gone. “In my hometown, almost every girl was taught this skill,” she recalls. “It was as important a part of a girl’s education as needlework. Women up north in Taipei lived luxurious lives, they didn’t care to learn how to do it. So I ended up making a living in Taipei doing facials.” Nowadays, a traditional Chinese facial is no longer one of the required rituals leading up to mar­riage, and women do not study the art as part of their education. It has become merely an alternative to modern, Western­ style skin-care centers.

Traditional facials, wan mian, or “pluck the face,” are less expensive and time-consuming than the full-bore West­ern variety. But that is only one reason why many women opt for it over the services offered by modern skin-care centers. For US$5.50, or roughly one-tenth the cost of a modern facial, a customer can have her face smoothed, softened, and looking radiant in just thirty minutes. The advan­tages are many, according to Chang Chi­-min (張旗敏), 48, who has been having Chinese facials regularly every two months for four years now. “Once the downy hair has been cleared away, it be­comes easier for the skin to absorb cosmet­ics and nutritional creams,” she maintains. “It can also cure pimples, contract pores, and eliminate wrinkles. It’s good for oily skin, too. It even helps the blood circula­tion in your face. And because the hair is plucked from the roots, not cut with scissors, when it grows back it will be thinner and not as hard.”

Is it painful? Customers say that hav­ing the fine hairs plucked naturally involves a degree of discomfort. “But beauty always has its price, and modern skin care isn’t any less painful,” says Wu Po-cheng (吳柏錚), 21, speaking for a new generation that has decided to place its confidence in traditional methods. “This kind of facial doesn’t use chemicals,” she goes on. “Perhaps it isn’t very scientific, but I believe in ‘grandmother’s wisdom.’ I’ve tried modem skin care, and for me the traditional way is more effective.”

Men also occasionally visit these facial stands, although they have to pay slightly more than women. Chang says that traditional beauticians still follow the old-established rule that a man’s beard must not be plucked, because that could have a bad effect on his manhood and gen­eral health. Chang comments that some men do ask to have their whiskers plucked, but she just cannot bring herself to do it.

Chinese facials involve a series of operations. First, the skin must be thor­oughly cleansed of cosmetics and sweat, after which the beautician applies a layer of glossy white powder to the face and uses tweezers to shape the eyebrows. She then twists a cotton thread into a tight skein, having first protected her fingers with a bandage. She does this by holding one end of the thread in her teeth and winding the other end around the thumb, middle finger, and ring finger of her right hand, so that it forms a triangle. The mouth keeps the thread taut while the hands manipulate it. The beautician is at last ready to start work on the customer’s face, rapidly opening and closing the triangle to nip away the down: first the forehead, followed by the cheeks, nose, ears, and chin.

The client is by no means a passive participant in all this. She has to blow out her cheeks, push her nose to one side, and make all kinds of expressions if she wants to make sure that every inch of her face is treated. By the time it is over her face will have turned a reddish color. “That’s brought her blood pressure up!” Chang jokes. Sponge-gourd juice is then applied, to cool and refresh the face. Chang main­tains that only the juice from sponge gourds harvested around October should be used, because those picked in other months tend to be too bitter and can harm the skin.

Although these basic steps are the same for everyone, each beautician has her own distinct style. “The differences are very subtle, very difficult to describe,” Chang says. “You just feel it. The only way to tell is to experience it for yourself. That’s why some customers get so used to me that they come here every month, even after they’ve moved to other parts of the island.”

Are customers also different? “Yes,” she says. “Some clients have white hair, some have black. Some customers have thick, dense hair on their face, and we call them‘mouse-faced,’or‘cow-reincar­nated.’It’s tiresome, doing their faces. I always get out of breath, dealing with them. You mustn't think this is an easy job." 

It certainly does not look easy. A beautician cannot afford to have false teeth, if she's to keep the thread good and tight. Pulling the thread takes a lot of ef­fort. Squatting all day makes the bones ache. Mosquitoes can be tiresome, the traffic noisy. And sometimes the weather is steaming hot.“It's cooler today." Chang says, as a drop of sweat trickles down her neck. The mercury is nudging thirty de­grees Celsius.

The weather is not the only thing that afflicts Shihlin' s outdoor facial stands. As well as occasionally being menaced by stray dogs, Chang says she has received several tickets from the police. Without an official license, these stands are illegal. The fine is US$44, which is what she earns for treating eight customers. Chang would like to see the government set up a traditional facial center to preserve her vanish­ing craft. Of all the local beauticians, she is perhaps the most energetic, attending night school and taking classes in Buddhism. But she is not optimistic about the future.“Last year, three of the women working here died of strokes," she says. “We're getting on. I have to wear glasses now. Sometimes I have to rest half the month. My students aren't making much progress. They haven't got the commit­ment. This craft is dying."