I am lying face down and naked on a wet, vinyl-covered table. My body clenches as I prepare myself for what’s to come. 

The plump, short-haired woman standing before me is dressed only in black undergarments, flip-flops and Brillo-pad-like scrubbing mitts. Without saying a word, she grabs my shoulder-length hair and ties it back with an elastic band. As she lifts up my leg, my fingers instinctively grasp the side of the table. She notices this and shakes her head in disapproval.

Clearly, this is my first time.

I am No. 51 on the assembly line of women who have flocked to Los Angeles’ Olympic Spa on this warm summer morning. Let’s just say I’m a bit nervous. Before my arrival, online reviews and a couple co-workers clued me in on a few basics: 1) This ain’t Burke Williams. 2) Everyone gets naked. 3) If you get the exfoliation treatment, you will be scrubbed. Hard. 

I’m a rather modest person, the type who wears a cover-up right up until the moment it’s time to jump into the pool. And I’ve got a low threshold for pain. I’m starting to think I’ve come to the wrong place.     

Still, I’m somewhat comforted by the fact that thousands have walked out of such establishments alive — and completely hooked. In cities like New York, San Francisco and Los Angeles, Korean bathhouses have been making a splash as spa-goers of all ethnicities are trading plush robes and waterfall soundtracks for a no-frills, no-nonsense experience that results in glowing, baby-soft skin.  

“People come for the scrub,” says Susie Ellis, president of Spa Finder, a New York-based marketing company that researches spa trends. “It’s more vigorous than what most people are used to, but afterwards, you just feel squeaky clean. You see real results.”

I admit that I’m probably due for a good nook-and-cranny cleaning. My shower routine consists of a squeeze of vanilla body wash and a quick hand-lather. Those hard-to-reach places are usually, well, too hard to reach. And I can’t even remember the last time I took a bath. In an age of frantic scheduling and re-scheduling, who has the time?  

In Korea, mokyoktangs, or public bathhouses, date back to the 16th century with their basic practices found in the ancient medicine book Dongui bogam. Up until the 1980s, when most homes still lacked reliable plumbing, they served as neighborhood gathering places. Ladies would stop in every few days to gab and gossip while sloughing away their dead skin cells under metal spigots. Men would branch off to their respective quarters to relax and soak in tubs of near-scalding water. While some traditional mokyoktangs went out of business with the rise of the modern shower, many continue to lure clients with added spa treatments and amenities.