All joking apart, the third paragraph makes me physically angry.
http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/jan/18/what-thinking-bikini-waxer
Sunday 19 January 2014
Thursday 16 January 2014
Pampering
“Pampering”. What a misnomer that is! An Indian head massage while you are gently basted with sweet-smelling oils, fair enough, but many of the treatments we women gladly pay for under the guise of “pampering” would be illegal under the Geneva convention. We are sold the idea that going to a beauty salon is relaxing, essential "me-time”. Reader, they lied.
I've never endured professional waxing but I have A) accidentally stuck my finger in a hot tea-light and B) removed plasters. The thought of combining both experiences is plain wrong. Aggie McKenzie of “How clean is your house?” describes having her underarms done as “like giving birth to oversized twins”. I’ll stick with my Lady Bic, thanks.
Even seemingly innocuous treatments can hurt. A friend once “treated” me to a pedicure that began with a dry salt scrub to exfoliate the lower leg. Imagine an angry wrestler rubbing handfuls of gravel into your shins and you’re halfway there. My barely-stifled “oohs” and “ahs” must have left the therapist feeling like she was working on a PG Tips chimp instead of a human being. The subsequent cuticle removal brought to mind the techniques of the Spanish Inquisition, over a background of doleful whale music.
Spray tans are another anathema to me. Anything that involves standing in front of a stranger wearing nought but paper knickers can't be that fun. I've never met anyone with a fake tan who didn't look creosoted and smell faintly of biscuits. The proper setting for an English person is to be faintly blue for ten months of the year, then lobster pink from late June until the August bank holiday.
A little maintenance is a necessary evil if you don't want to end up looking like a cross between Bilbo Baggins and Cousin It from The Addams Family, but could we come up with a new term that doesn't suggest A) relaxation or B) enjoyment? Beaut-orture maybe. Now if you will excuse me, I need to go and sandpaper my feet.
I've never endured professional waxing but I have A) accidentally stuck my finger in a hot tea-light and B) removed plasters. The thought of combining both experiences is plain wrong. Aggie McKenzie of “How clean is your house?” describes having her underarms done as “like giving birth to oversized twins”. I’ll stick with my Lady Bic, thanks.
Even seemingly innocuous treatments can hurt. A friend once “treated” me to a pedicure that began with a dry salt scrub to exfoliate the lower leg. Imagine an angry wrestler rubbing handfuls of gravel into your shins and you’re halfway there. My barely-stifled “oohs” and “ahs” must have left the therapist feeling like she was working on a PG Tips chimp instead of a human being. The subsequent cuticle removal brought to mind the techniques of the Spanish Inquisition, over a background of doleful whale music.
Spray tans are another anathema to me. Anything that involves standing in front of a stranger wearing nought but paper knickers can't be that fun. I've never met anyone with a fake tan who didn't look creosoted and smell faintly of biscuits. The proper setting for an English person is to be faintly blue for ten months of the year, then lobster pink from late June until the August bank holiday.
A little maintenance is a necessary evil if you don't want to end up looking like a cross between Bilbo Baggins and Cousin It from The Addams Family, but could we come up with a new term that doesn't suggest A) relaxation or B) enjoyment? Beaut-orture maybe. Now if you will excuse me, I need to go and sandpaper my feet.
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