In Pursuit of a Snatched Neck: I Let Someone Zap My Neck for $126
I never thought I’d find myself sitting in what was essentially a supply closet next to a hair salon’s toilet, willingly surrendering my neck to a woman with a radio frequency wand. But here we are.
It all started with an Instagram ad—because isn’t that how most questionable life choices begin? A sleek, filtered video promised me a “snatched” neck for the low, low price of $126. Estheticly – The Skin Bar, the ad proclaimed, as if it were some chic downtown lounge where martinis were served alongside microneedling. I pictured mood lighting, cucumber water, and aestheticians in lab coats murmuring about collagen over a sound bath. Instead, I found myself in North Vancouver, standing in front of a hair salon, double-checking Google Maps like a detective who’d been given bad intel.
“This can’t be right,” I muttered, but the universe, in its infinite sense of humor, confirmed: Yes, my journey to a firmer jawline would begin between a blowout station and the restroom.
I walked in, trying to exude the confidence of someone who definitely belonged there, and asked about The Skin Bar. The receptionist gestured toward the back, past shelves of hair dye and the faint scent of ammonia. And there it was—not a bar, not even a counter, but a tiny room that looked like it had once housed a photocopier. The only thing separating me from the toilet was a thin wall and my own dwindling dignity.
Farzana, the aesthetician, explained the treatment with the enthusiasm of someone who truly believed in her magic wand. "The Viora uses radio frequency to heat your skin's deeper layers," she said, demonstrating the device that looked suspiciously like a sci-fi hair pen. "Most clients see amazing results after six sessions."
The moment the wand touched my neck, I understood the true meaning of regret. The thinner areas—like the delicate skin close to my collarbone—felt like heated rubber bands flicking my skin repeatedly. I held my breath praying for it to be over.
Farzana explained the pricing structure with the practiced ease of a timeshare salesman. Normally $252 per session, but if I committed to six treatments today, I'd get them for half price. "My most loyal clients have been coming for two years," she added proudly.
As I drove home, I prodded my jawline like it might suddenly declare itself chiseled. And I weighed my options. Six more sessions of discomfort for potentially noticeable results? Or cut my losses and accept that not everyone can have Angelina’s jawline. My credit card stayed securely in my wallet. The real magic, I decided, wasn’t the wand—it was the audacity of modern beauty marketing. On social media, they could sell us anything: Radio frequency! Gold-infused creams! Snail mucus! And we’d line up, credit cards in hand, hoping to emerge reborn.
A ew days later, my collagen is supposedly still “working,” though my neck looks exactly the same. Any feeling that one session might produce some results had vanished along with my money. Would I go back? Doubtful. Either way, $126 bought me a great story—and the fleeting hope that maybe, just maybe, I too could be filtered in real life.
