A faux plastic syringe holds a ‘placenta serum’, while a shining silver snail opens in half, to reveal ‘snail repair-and-recovery cream’. A smiling, beady-eyed kitty holds an ‘under-eye wrinkle smoothening cushion’, while inside a glossy red strawberry sits ‘an anti-oxidant facial elixir’. These are just a few of the bizarre, yet beautifully-packaged, products that line the shelves at Myeong-dong District, the ‘cosmetic district’ of Seoul, South Korea.
Armed with one too many bags, I leave its neon lights and flashy window dressings, and head to a whole new world: the Bongeunsa temple, set amidst ancient trees. The juxtaposition is stark. And as the gong reverberates through the air, I can’t help but wonder if Korea’s recent emphasis on beauty chips away at her cultural roots.
Luxury, au naturale
It is in the city of Busan, at Spa Land (inside the Shinsegae Centum City Department store), that I witness how outer radiance and inner beauty can merge.
The spa comes with many temperature-controlled rooms open to both genders: ice-rooms to close the pores; yellow ochre rooms where infrared waves calm the mind; the Body Sound room where music wafts through the air; the Bali room which is essentially a steam hall, etc. But it is the gender segregated bath houses, or jjimjilbangs, that are the main draw, priced anywhere between ₹888 and ₹1,066 for four hours.
According to my guidebook, Korea has always been rich in natural hot springs revered for their mineral properties, and public bathing soon became a ritual. Even today, most Koreans set aside one day of the week to visit a jjimjilbang in the company of friends or family.
There are many legends attached to the healing waters of these hot springs. But one of the most popular revolves around the story of the monk who touched a leper’s sores to bless him, and was rewarded by the Buddha leading him to a healing spring.
The story is open to many interpretations, but the ritual of bathing here, is seen as one that goes beyond mere physical cleansing, to one that touches the spirit.
As I enter, I gasp silently, and immediately fix my gaze to the floor: I am in a locker room with 50-odd women, all in the buff. I almost decide against the experience but curiosity and the drive for a story keep me going. There are no changing rooms, just aisles with lockers; I head for a corner aisle, which hasn’t been discovered, and begin to undress. Clad in inner-wear, I try to head to the pools. But a gentle woman, wearing not a shred of clothing, stops me saying, ‘Must take out. Not hygienic to wear this in pool,’ while pointing at my lingerie. Eyes turn towards me; ironically it’s the clothing that draws attention. And then I strip.
Freeing the mind
The towel handed to me is just a little bigger than a handkerchief. I let it go, as have the others around me. I walk to the bath area, where I shower in full public view, before dipping into the spa. In there, inhibition slips away. The feeling of red-faced embarrassment gives way to a quieter inner voice: why does the bare body make us so uncomfortable? Around me are women of all ages and sizes; some clean-shaven, others au natural, and no one so much as steals a second look. The differences — wrinkled or not, fat or slim — don’t matter. Silently, through their bare bodies, it’s as if the women around me scream: underneath it all, we’re the same. In that moment it’s clear that body consciousness cannot gain ground in a culture where public bathing is a ritual.
The many hot springs range in temperature, and regulars suggest going from the coldest to the hottest to allow your body to acclimatise. The optimal soaking time is 20 minutes, though some stay longer. The hot water opens up the pores and helps blood circulation, while the minerals in the water boost collagen. An hour later, I emerge with softer hair and glowing skin. But the biggest change is subtle: a quiet confidence in my body. The shift stays.
Despite the growing cultural emphasis on ‘modesty’ and ‘perfection’, I no longer move my hand over my shoulder to check for a peeking bra strap and I’m a lot less worried about the scar on my stomach revealing itself under a cropped tee. After all, it’s just the body.
The writer is using a pseudonym, having shed her public identity along with her clothes at the jjimjilbang.
