Beauty Is Pain: Team Sassy’s Beauty Treatment Horror Stories

Despite even the most extensive research, beauty treatments don’t always go according to plan. Whether it’s a salon treatment or a DIY disaster, sometimes the road to glowing skin and glossy hair takes a horrifying turn.

We’ve all been there — sitting in a salon chair, anxiously crossing fingers that this new and exciting beauty treatment will turn us into the ultimate version of ourselves. But sometimes, things don’t exactly go according to plan. From botched hair to laser facials to painful moments down there, Team Sassy has seen (and suffered through) it all in the name of beauty.

So, in the spirit of keeping it real (and hoping you learn from our mistakes), we’re spilling our most dramatic and slightly horrifying beauty treatment tales. So strap in, because beauty is pain.

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The facial that traumatised me

When I was 15, my sweet mother decided to treat me to a facial at an extremely fancy place specialising in treating acne, which I had at the time. This was at a fancy place specialising in acne facials, too. But when they started doing ‘extractions’ (which I’d never even heard of at the time), I was in so much pain for 45 minutes, I remember just dissociating completely. Plus, the whole time she kept telling me how awful my skin was and how I needed to take better care of myself. When it was finally over, my face was bright red, covered in tiny scabs and I left with a few permanent scars and hyperpigmentation that took years to fade.

The experience changed my whole outlook on skincare. Instead of chasing expensive treatments and miracle creams, I started leaning into a more natural, gentle approach — treating my skin like an organ that represents my health, not just a problem that needs to be fixed. We know best what our skin needs, so if something works, keep using it.

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My Korean Botox experience that surprised me

The laser that made my skin worse, and my trust issues stronger

I’d struggled with hormonal acne for a while, and once it finally calmed down, I decided to get a laser resurfacing facial to fade my scars, minimise pores and improve the overall condition of my skin. The clinic recommended a course of three sessions, spaced a month apart, promising noticeable results by the end of the third session. The first treatment felt hot but manageable — especially considering they didn’t use any numbing cream. But between my first and second sessions, my acne came roaring back. Not just a few breakouts — this was angry, red cystic acne with painful bumps that kept returning to the same spots. When I asked the clinic what was happening, they brushed it off as “normal” and told me to keep going with my treatments. Finally, by the third treatment, my skin was an absolute mess — inflamed, sore and covered in breakouts. To make things worse, the clinic kept showing me my own before-and-after photos, insisting there was “major improvement” — I couldn’t believe we were looking at the same thing! They even tried to upsell a fourth session to me, which I declined. Eventually, I turned to tretinoin and Fraxel laser, which thankfully healed my skin. But even now, every time I walk past that clinic in Hong Kong, I feel traumatised again.

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The complimentary wax that cost me my dignity

I received a voucher for a waxing service at a luxurious boutique hotel, and obviously, I was thrilled. It was my first time getting a professional wax, and the fact that it was complimentary was even better.

I got comfortable on the treatment table, blissfully unaware of what was to come. The aesthetician started my bikini wax, and within seconds, I nearly blacked out from the pain. When I finally came to, I looked down and realised we were only halfway done. For a split second, I considered tapping out — but the thought of walking around half-waxed was even worse. So I gripped the sheets, clenched my jaw and prayed for it to be over. I walked into that hotel innocent and naïve — and walked out a changed, enlightened woman.

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The DIY Bikini wax never to be attempted again

I wanted to save money on a bikini wax and thought I could do it myself. I figured it was a win-win — cheaper and I wouldn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of a stranger getting all up in my business. I bought some waxing strips and dove in without the slightest clue what I was doing. Between the weird angles, the awkward hunching (which gave me stomach cramps) and zero understanding of which direction to pull the strips, it was chaotic and messy. A few days later, once I recovered enough to inspect the damage, I had a look at my handiwork and was startled to see blue and black bruises from my amateur technique. Thankfully, I’ve improved since this incident.

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The DIY Blonde job that turned into a permanent hair mystery

When we were 15, my friend had bought some bleach and hair dye from a drugstore in an effort to dye her hair blond at home. She definitely didn’t read the instructions clearly, because a chunk of her hair turned completely white. Not platinum blonde — white. And the weird part was, it started growing out of her scalp that way, too. No dark regrowth, no natural pigment — just a streak of pure white hair. On top of that, since this incident (about 10 years ago), this chunk of hair has refused to take any colour, no matter how many top-tier salons she’s been to. She leans into this patch of white hair now, but it was a horrific experience for a 15-year-old to go through.

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The haircut that cut a hole out of my wallet and ego

I’d heard about this hairdresser who’d styled the hair of celebrities and high-society types, and I was ready for my own luxe hair transformation. My ends were split, and my layers were flat, so I needed a full refresh. I went to his salon for a cut (which included a private room and basin!), convincing myself it was worth the splurge every once in a while. I’d even seen the before-and-afters and my mum had gone to him too — and the results were great! But when it came time for the actual cut… nothing happened. Like, genuinely nothing. I wanted a reshape and a trim, but as I watched him snip, barely a single strand hit the floor, and I started to feel like he was miming a haircut. Every snip felt purely performative. I sat there silently panicking, wondering if I was imagining it — but I wasn’t. As he finished, my hair looked the same as before, just freshly washed. Knowing his reputation, I awkwardly thanked him for absolutely nothing, not feeling confident enough for confrontation, and I left the salon with a bruised heart and a hole in my wallet.