MT
Mackenzie Thomas
Oct 12, 2025
⭐ 1 star — and that’s generous.
I booked a 90-minute hot-stone massage at Ivy Massage, expecting peace, relaxation, maybe even the sound of ocean waves. Instead, I think I accidentally stumbled into a front for something that had absolutely nothing to do with licensed massage therapy.
When I arrived, a woman and a much younger man (maybe her son?) were chatting in another language. He left, she asked me—twice—what time my appointment was, then finally understood “2:30.” She wandered to the back, looked one way, then the other, turned back around, and said “shhh” while holding a finger to her mouth. (???). Then she disappeared into what appeared to be a closet for a couple of minutes.
At this point, I’m just sitting alone in the lobby thinking, “Okay, she must be grabbing the actual massage therapist.” Wrong. She comes back out of the closet, gestures for me to follow her, and leads me to a small room with a massage table, a divider, and what I can only describe as confusing energy.
She lays down a towel, folds two tissues where my face will go, adds another towel, and gestures for me to get ready—without ever leaving the room. So I awkwardly undress while she’s half behind the divider, half not, still moving around.
Then comes the “music.” And by music, I mean a YouTube playlist that included multi-minute ad breaks every few minutes—nothing says “relaxation” like hearing about dads with children who have leukemia mid-massage. The soundtrack jumped from generic spa flutes, to full-blown Asian opera, to what can only be described as opera-metal fusion. So technically there was music, but spiritually, there was silence.
I lay down, she covers me, and we sit in silence while she… braids my hair. For a full five minutes. I’ve had massages all over the place and not once has anyone ever started by styling me like I’m heading to summer camp.
Then she begins the massage. The back work was… fine. Not good, not bad, just vaguely stressful. But when she told me to flip over, that’s when things went off the rails.
She undoes the braid and starts massaging my scalp, which felt great for about thirty seconds—until she begins grabbing sections of my hair, one at a time, pulling harder and harder as the sections get bigger. Within moments she’s yanking so hard it feels like my skin is separating from my skull. And just when I think it can’t get worse, she punches me on the top of the head three times. Not a tap. Not a massage motion. Literal thuds.
Before I can recover, she grabs my arms, folds them behind me like a chicken wing, and pops my shoulder—which honestly did relieve some tension but also felt like something that should require a waiver. Then she starts slapping the bottoms of my feet, over and over, and finally ends the session by slapping the tops of my thighs and pelvic area like she’s trying to wake up my ancestors.
She drops my legs, says “all done,” and leaves the room. I get dressed, walk out to the lobby, and there’s a man sitting in the chair waiting. I couldn’t even make eye contact.
I went home and checked the reviews, and apparently I’m not the first woman to have a bizarre or possibly unsafe experience here.
If this is a legitimate business, it’s being run in the most confusing, unprofessional way possible. And if it’s not… I think we all deserve to know what’s actually happening behind that divider.
Bottom line:
If you value your neck, your dignity, or your sanity—book somewhere else.