In which we meet Nael, the manly masseur
He’ll have you at hello—or more specifically, at his handshake. With a firm but gentle grasp and smooth skin, soft from kneading oil into muscles all day long, you can just tell that these hands, belonging to Nael Dababneh, a massage therapist at The Hazelton hotel, are going to work magic.
Deep in the lower level below one of Toronto’s swishiest hotels, the Spa at the Hazelton is a study in neutral marble and frosted glass, with a mosaic-tiled lap pool and a eucalyptus steam room. Such a luxurious setting promises a fantastic body scrub and mud wrap (which certainly is delivered) but not necessarily a strong, therapeutic massage. But Dababneh’s baby face and sweet manner belie his masterful technique.
The first session with a male masseur is always interesting—many women prefer not to attempt it at all, perhaps uncomfortable at the idea of being kneaded in the altogether by a man they don’t know. Even if you’re not particularly bothered by it, a certain awkwardness does come to mind. So it’s a testament to Dababneh’s skill at putting his clients at ease that about 10 minutes in, any awareness of the situation has disappeared (save for the always awkward moment in the middle, male massage therapist or no, when you lumpenly heave yourself over onto your back, with hair stuck to your forehead and perhaps a droplet of drool skirting your chin) because there are so many other things to focus on—i.e. how goddamn blissful this feels.
At the outset, Dababneh dutifully asks about any areas of concern, and responds to a bit of inarticulate blathering about sporadically sore shoulders, neck, upper and lower back with an unfazed “I’ll just see what the tissues are telling me.”
I can’t be sure exactly what my tissues told him, but over the course of 60 minutes he correctly identified the hand I write with (left), the shoulder I carry my overstuffed handbag on (also the left) and where my mouse sits on my desk (the right). He detects a spot of tendonitis in my left wrist, which has since become glaringly obvious in every yoga and workout class, and offers tips to protect and correct it, such as making sure to keep the wrist firm and straight while lifting hand weights.
Afterwards, when I’m back in my robe, sipping water and blinking madly, he asks me whether the aforementioned sore shoulders/neck/back feel better. They do, but all I can do is garble incoherently, and apologize, saying I’m feeling more than a little out of it. “That’s a good thing!” he says kindly, and gives me his card. I’ll be keeping it close.
Signature massage, $140 for 60 minutes, Spa at the Hazelton (118 Yorkville Ave., Toronto, 416-963-6300, thehazeltonhotel.com)
