What to expect at your
first massage

Nobody's first massage starts on the table. It starts in the car, in the parking lot, with a small knot of questions — how much do I take off, what if I fall asleep, what if I'm supposed to say something and I don't say it. Here is the whole thing in order, so you can stop rehearsing it.

We're at 150 Pioneer Trail in Chaska Commons, at the corner of Hwy 41 and Pioneer Trail — next to Caribou Coffee, between Cub Foods and Target. Parking is a free surface lot directly in front of the door, with accessible spaces by the entrance. No ramp, no meter, no circling the block.

Eat something light an hour or so beforehand if you can. A full stomach on a face cradle isn't comfortable, and neither is arriving hungry enough that the room hears about it twenty minutes in. Skip the enormous coffee. Give yourself five to ten minutes of margin — you can book a time online or walk in and ask what's open, but the margin is what makes the first ten minutes feel calm instead of rushed.

And if you drove over the Chaska bridge from Shakopee or down 212 from Eden Prairie, sit in the car for a second before you come in. Ninety seconds of not moving does more for the session than anything else you can do beforehand.

The intake form is one page and takes about three minutes. It asks what you'd like worked on, whether anything hurts, recent injuries or surgery, whether you're pregnant, and whether you have allergies — some people react to particular oils, and that is much easier to know before than after.

It isn't a medical history, and we're not reading it as clinicians, because we aren't clinicians. What a therapist is looking for is the handful of details that change how they work: a shoulder that won't go past a certain point, a knee replacement from March, a patch of your back you'd rather nobody touched. Write those down even when they feel too small to mention. The five seconds it takes you saves the therapist ten minutes of guessing.

There are situations where the honest answer is "ask your doctor first" — a fever, a skin infection, recent surgery, a clotting disorder, a high-risk pregnancy. If that's you, check with your clinician and then tell us what they said, so we can work inside it. The NCCIH keeps a plain, non-promotional list of things to know before booking massage therapy that's worth two minutes of reading; more of the practical answers live on our FAQ page.

This is the sentence everyone gets stuck on, so here's the plain version. Your therapist shows you the room, tells you which way to lie down, then leaves and closes the door behind them. You undress to whatever level you're comfortable with, get under the top sheet, and they knock before coming back in. You are never undressing in front of anyone.

For an oil massage most people leave their underwear on. Some people don't. Both are entirely ordinary and nobody at the front desk is keeping a tally. Once you're on the table you are covered by a sheet for the whole session — the therapist folds back only the arm, leg or section of back they're working on, and tucks it back before moving on. Draping isn't a courtesy we extend to nervous first-timers. It's simply how the work is done, every session, for everyone.

If undressing at all is the sticking point, book something you keep your clothes on for. A reflexology foot session is shoes and socks off and nothing else, in a recliner rather than on a table. Futon Thai work is done fully clothed on a floor mat. Plenty of people start there and move to the table on the third or fourth visit — and plenty never move at all, which is also fine.

You'll usually start face-down, with your face in a padded cradle and a bolster under your ankles. If the cradle sits at a strange angle, say so straight away — it adjusts, and thirty seconds of fixing it beats fifty-five minutes of a crick in your neck.

The room is dim and warm. There's music, quiet enough to stop noticing. Your therapist warms the oil in their hands rather than pouring it cold down your back, and the first few minutes are broad and slow — long strokes along the back, some general work across the shoulders — because that's how they find out what your tissue is actually like. The specific work comes after that.

Two things worth knowing while you're lying there. You can ask for a blanket, more heat, less music, or the lights lower, and none of it is a bother. And you can ask to have an area skipped entirely — feet, scalp, abdomen, the backs of the knees. "Please don't do my feet" is a complete sentence and needs no explanation.

What happens next depends on what you booked. The full menu and prices are published, and the 60-minute oil massage covers back, shoulders, neck, arms, legs and feet at a pace that doesn't feel like a guided tour.

If we could change one thing about first visits, it would be this. People lie there enduring pressure they don't like because they don't want to seem difficult, decide afterwards that massage isn't for them, and never come back. The dial belongs to you. Here is the entire script:

You will not be the first. Falling asleep is closer to a compliment than a problem — people snore, people drool into the face cradle, people wake up on their back with no memory of having been turned over. It happens most days here, and the therapist simply keeps working.

Stomachs growl. Loudly, sometimes, right around the twenty-minute mark when you've finally settled. Feet are ticklish, and the fix is firmer contact, so say something and it stops. Legs are shaved or they aren't. People cry occasionally — the quiet, surprised, not-actually-sad kind — and it's usually the ones who arrived insisting they were fine. There's a box of tissues in every room for a reason.

One thing genuinely worth flagging in advance: if you're pregnant, tell us when you book. Prenatal sessions are set up side-lying with bolsters and cushions rather than face-down, and building that setup takes a couple of minutes we'd rather take before you arrive.

Slow. Pleasantly stupid for about twenty minutes — that's the phrase most people land on, unprompted, at the desk. Your therapist will tell you to take your time and they mean it: sit up on the edge of the table, wait for the room to settle, then get dressed. Standing up fast is the only reliable way to feel bad after a massage.

There's water at the desk. Take it. Some people walk out loose and light immediately; others feel almost nothing until the next morning, when they notice they've turned their head further than they have in a month. Neither one tells you whether the session worked.

If you're curious what the practice is generally understood to do, the AMTA — the trade body whose membership the City of Chaska requires of every therapist working here — publishes a position statement on massage and wellness. It's noticeably more restrained than most spa copy, which we'd argue is a point in its favour.

After deeper work you may be a bit tender the following day, in the way you are after starting a new kind of exercise, and it usually settles within a day or two. What to do after a massage covers the next 48 hours properly — including the one thing about water that everybody has been told and that isn't true.

Every price is on the wall and on the website. A 30-minute oil massage is $55, an hour is $80, 90 minutes is $120, two hours is $160. Hot stone is a $10 add-on if you want it. Gratuity is not included in those numbers and it is never expected — plenty of people don't, and nothing about the next visit changes.

There's no membership, no package, and no conversation at the end of your session about a long-term plan for your body. For comparison, the nearest national chain lists around $140 for a 60-minute session if you aren't a member. Publishing the price and leaving it alone is the whole strategy.

We're open seven days a week: Mon — Sat 9:00 AM — 9:00 PM, Sunday 9:30 AM — 9:00 PM. Walk-ins are genuinely welcome — a first massage that happens because you found a free hour on a Tuesday evening counts exactly as much as one you planned a month out. Call or text (612) 600-9298 if you'd rather ask a person first. Nervous questions are the ones we answer most.