A win-win-win. The treatment begins like most other facial services: with a (way too short, IMO) head massage, followed by a double-cleansing session. Then, Silvia lifts up the black Cryo Air wand — which looks sort of like a smaller, less aggressive handheld Dyson vacuum — and directs its first windchill toward my face and décolletage, moving in quick, back-and-forth motions. She set the ice machine at level five, which, as it turns out, is around -70 degrees. For the full three minutes of cryo, my skin tingles — a sensation that's cold, weird, and razor-sharp, like I'm getting bitten by a hundred black ants. My entire body has the chills and, all of a sudden, I'm back in 2006, wearing a sleeveless dress at an outdoor New Year's Eve party in my frigid Kansas town. It must be working, I think. Silvia also tells me that the machine's highest level is nine — that's the setting that pumps out air at -130 Fahrenheit, give or take a few degrees. So, in the name of journalism, I ask her to crank it all the way up (or, in this case, down). The experience lasted a mere 20 seconds, but now I realize why the word "cry" is in the name of the treatment.
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