STYLE : LOOKS : KING FOR A DAY : Getting the Royal Treatment at Salons That Groom Men

Every 12 days, George Bush goes to a small barbershop in the west wing of the White House for a haircut. At the same time, he gets a manicure. Yes, a manicure. And a facial, if he’s not pressed for time.

According to Milton Pitts, who has cut the President’s hair for 16 years--and been a barber in Washington for 43--a lot of other men in the capital have become similarly fastidious. In fact, says Pitts, it’s reached the point where half the customers who go to his downtown establishment for a manicure request clear nail polish. (Bush doesn’t.)

So what’s it like to receive the extra attention? Is it something Dad might enjoy? In Los Angeles, you can certainly find out. And recently, that’s what I set out to do.

I decided to start with a full Day of Beauty (actually, about five hours’ worth) at Burke Williams on Wilshire Boulevard.

Burke Williams promotes itself as “a world-class European spa . . . nestled within the heart of West Los Angeles.” Since that’s the ground floor of a high-rise, the overall effect is more like a doctor’s office with very dim lighting. But Margaret, the young woman who called softly to me from beyond the door to the men’s dressing area, did indeed seem to be European.

Margaret ushered me to a small room, then waited outside until I’d climbed between the sheets covering a table much like a doctor’s examining table. Then she announced, “Now I’m going to exfoliate your skin and use essential oils and creams to make it smoother.”

What ensued reminded me of what I used to do when I kept my bathroom floor really clean. First, Margaret scrubbed me with a brush. Then she used a luffa to slather me with those creams, and finally she wiped them off with a damp cloth. After that, she applied hot liquid paraffin to my back and hands to help moisturize them, and she massaged my feet.

About 90 minutes later, she led me down the hall to another room, where she introduced me to my masseuse, Maureen, who showed me how to climb into the tall, cylindrical tub that stood in one corner, all ready for my Austrian Camomile Whirlpool Bath. Maureen suggested that I soak for 20 minutes, take a quick shower and be between the sheets of her massage table by 3 o’clock.

As a bath person, I had no trouble enjoying the lightly scented, slightly churning water. But as a novice when it came to massages, I was unprepared for the feeling induced by Maureen’s Pure Relaxation Full Body Massage--in a word, bliss. Sometimes I concentrated on the pressure of her fingers, kneading, it seemed, in rhythm with the New Age music piping softly overhead. At other times, my mind drifted. Before I knew it, another 90 minutes were up.

Back in Margaret’s sanctum, I put up no resistance as she spritzed me with something that smelled vaguely herbal and then enfolded me in clean sheets--the Aromatherapy Body Wrap. It was time for my Spa-style Gentleman’s Facial.

This was nothing if not thorough. Margaret gently squeezed my pores with tissues. She steamed my face. She creamed it and covered it with masks--one she said was clay, the other wheat germ (“This will smell like breakfast”). She also massaged my feet some more.

At 6, I returned to the dressing room. Studying myself in the mirror, I decided I looked . . . glowing. Whether this was worth a total of $280, plus tips, is another matter. Still, I was struck by how so much attention to my body could result in what felt almost like an out-of-body experience.

Yet I still had done nothing for my hair and nails. So the following week, I headed down Rodeo Drive for a scalp treatment ($55), plus a manicure and pedicure ($45), at Georgette Klinger.

The Klinger salon is a venerable temple of beauty, and the scene behind its imposing metal doors was bustling. I could also glimpse, sitting in the back, a young man who looked--well, fairly ridiculous. His jeans-clad legs stuck out from beneath a short, peach-colored robe. On his head rested a plastic shower cap.

Shortly, that man would be me.

First, though, another young man--a sort of maitre d’--led me up a flight of stairs to the hair salon. It was a little like leaving the opening scene of “The Women” and walking into “Steel Magnolias.” The room was strictly utilitarian. My guide introduced me to Zina, who would be giving me my scalp treatment. Then I changed into one of those peach robes.

Zina sat me down and told me to relax. She turned an adjacent chair toward me and said, “Put your feet up.” She would begin, she explained, by massaging my scalp with a toner and conditioner.

This was a vigorous, though not unpleasant, process. She followed it by massaging my neck and shoulders. Eventually, she ladled a protein pack onto my head, then stuck a steamer over it. After a few minutes more, she crowned me with a shower cap and escorted me back to the main floor for my nail appointment.

Galina, my manicurist, was no chatterbox. She was a 17-year veteran who’d been working since 8 that morning, and she seemed to be interested only in getting her job done. Or perhaps, as I suspected, I just looked too strange in a shower cap.

But I have no doubt that, when she finished, my feet had never looked so well cared for. And my fingernails, which received similar attention, were left shapely and gleaming (although the matter of polish never came up). Then it was back upstairs, where Alicia shampooed my hair and brushed it back with some fixative.

By the time I got to my car, my hair had begun to flop modishly onto my forehead, and I was feeling like one of the too-pampered--say, the woman in snakeskin pants I’d just passed on Brighton Way. But the friend I had dinner with liked the flyaway effect. “You look as if you could be somebody,” she said.

And scoff though I may have, all this hands-on attention was clearly having an effect on me. Within three weeks, I was driving up Beverly Glen--eager to continue my research at Vera’s Retreat in the Glen. A facial ($50), followed by a massage ($50), seemed just the ticket after a stressful day.

I was given another peach-colored robe to change into, while my facialist, Guity, waited outside her room. Guity was all business. First, she creamed my hands and put them into what resembled enormous cardboard mittens. Then she pushed my hair back with a headband, trained a lamp on my face and peered down at me.

“You have large pores,” she said. These she squeezed with abandon, until I could feel tears springing to the corners of my eyes. A pimple was smoldering on my forehead, and she attacked that with renewed intensity.

Finally, after applying an astringent mask and allowing it to dry, Guity rinsed off my face, freed my hands and presented me with a gift: a small shopping bag, full of tiny samples of Vera’s products. She also gave me a brochure with instructions for my own individualized cleansing regimen, morning and night.

Clearly, Guity didn’t know me very well.

After that, it was time for my massage. And who am I to complain? It was certainly relaxing--and Tommie, my masseuse, had one move, involving her knuckles and the soles of my feet, that was a killer. But it was a little oily. When I took off my shirt that night, parts of it were soaked through.

Back in the lobby, as I was writing a check, cries went up from the young women behind the counter: “Vera, new person.” “New person, Vera!”

And so owner Vera Brown herself--70ish, her cheeks a delicate peach hue--appeared to ask after me. Seeing my forehead, where a ravaged blemish gleamed, she exclaimed, “Oh, do you have a boo-boo?” I allowed as how I did.

“I want you to put Pure Aloe Vera on it,” she said, referring to one of the containers in my little shopping bag. So I went home that night and did what I was told. And darned if that blemish wasn’t gone within two days.

Some of Vera’s products had a distinctive scent, though, and it wasn’t exactly what you’d call a masculine one. But then I could hardly have expected it to be. After all, women still far outnumber men when it comes to frequenting establishments like hers.

But not long afterward, I learned that a new business was scheduled to open in Beverly Hills--Umberto Men on Camden Drive. This is an offshoot of Umberto, a beauty salon that’s been operating nearby for the past nine years.

So, one evening in mid-May, I walked by Umberto Men, then being readied for its grand opening. The glass doors revealed a lobby featuring tall columns, caramel-colored woodwork and marble floors. Owner Umberto Savone was just leaving.

But Savone was more than willing to chat, and he explained that Umberto Men will offer facials ($45), manicures ($15), pedicures ($25) and haircuts ($35), as well as hair coloring, a hair-replacement specialist, a cappuccino bar and other amenities--all exclusively for men.

And, for men still reluctant to try something new, Umberto Men will have one additional advantage: There’s an entrance in the back where you can slip in unnoticed.