For $180, a fancy beauty parlor in New York will smear bird poop on your face.
According to the news account, about 100 men and women drop by the Shizuka Skin Care Salon once a month for a treatment.
The bird poop is mixed with rice bran to “keep the face soft and smooth, using an enzyme in the poop to gently exfoliate the skin,” according to the report.
The owner of the salon says she learned the skin care secret from her grandmother who claimed it has been used by geishas in Japan dating back to the 1600s.
I’ll bet I know how the ancient bird poop facial treatment was discovered: A geisha was walking through a city park one day eating a bag of popcorn when she looked up and saw a flock of pigeons circling overhead. She ducked, but it was too late. She had been moisturized.
The poor, pigeon-pooped geisha hurried home, grabbed a box of Kleenex, and began to dab at the mess.
When she finished, she noticed something interesting – her cleansed skin had a soft, radiant glow.
And the rest is history: The geisha got invited to the senior prom by the star quarterback of the football team, signed a lucrative contract with a modeling agency, and appeared on “The Oprah Winfrey Show” to endorse her new skin care product, called “Splat!”
Later in life, someone asked her what was the secret to her success.
“Pigeons,” she said.
Understand, I’m speculating about the pigeons. If pigeon poop made faces glow, imagine how shiny statues would look.
The story didn’t specify what kind of bird supplied the poop. So, I assume it’s a trade secret they don’t want to reveal. For all we know, beauty might lurk in the bottom of a parakeet cage.
I’m fairly sure, however, that whatever avian species supplies the beauty poop, it’s not chickens. I speak from experience.
As a teenager, I used to catch chickens in those giant warehouse-type poultry barns, and after a long night, I would emerge covered head to toe in stuff that didn’t resemble skin care products.
In case you’ve never caught chickens, here is how it’s done: You wait till nightfall when the chickens get settled down on their roosting poles.
You sneak into the chicken house, where approximately 10,000 hens are peacefully snoozing. You ease over and grab one by the legs.
It immediately starts squawking, pecking, flapping and flogging, and the other 9,999 chickens wake up and go nuts.
In seconds, the giant chicken house is a choking, blinding blizzard of feathers, along with dust and other stuff that has hit the proverbial fan.
Several hours later, after chasing down the final chicken and loading it into a wooden crate to be taken to that big Colonel Sanders in the sky, you crawl from the poultry barn, exhausted and excreted.
You scrape off the outer layer and try to hose off what is left.
I don’t recall if my skin was gently exfoliated or not, but if so, it didn’t help me get a date with Mary Sue Wattenbarger. After catching chickens all night, I had earned enough money to take her to movie, but when I asked her, she wrinkled her nose and turned me down. I noticed she also kept upwind of me.
I didn’t mind. I was too pooped to go anyway.