...I'm waiting, not terribly patiently, for the dimbo receptionist to finish talking to her chum on the salon phone.
“Yeah, babe, yeah, I know right. No, he never? What? Reeely?”
Her inane chat goes on and on as I seethe quietly. I left early to get here; I made sure I had change for the car park; I double checked the time and got here five minutes early, as requested. I wait longer...
Ten minutes later, I know rather a lot more about this girl’s life and friends than I’d like to. I sigh more loudly and start drumming the reception desk with my neglected nails. She finally looks up:
“Gotta go babe, there’s a customer, yeah, I know, it’s a pain, right. Later, babes.” And, finally I have her attention! She speaks to me:
Her: Hiya.
Me: Hello. I had an appointment booked for 1pm.
Her: Oh yeah, Take a seat, I’ll go and get the room sorted.
I seethe a little more, and try to remember how long I put on the car, because I’m now 15 minutes later than expected.
Finally we go into the misnamed “therapy room”, where I’m greeted by off-key whale song and a fug of cheap incense, nail varnish fumes and air freshener, presided over by a pissed-off looking statue of the Buddha. I’m not surprised; he looks as I feel. I thought this was supposed to be 'an hour of Blissful Relaxation', but so far, all that’s happened is that my blood pressure, normally rather low, is rapidly approaching the stratosphere.
“What’s up with your skin then?” she asks, laconically (or would if she knew what it meant). “If you don’t mind me* saying so, it looks a bit old and weathered.”
Actually, I do mind, and, as I’m about 25 years older than her, I’m bound to look a little more careworn in comparison, especially after listening to her inane babble for 15 minutes. Anyway, at least my nails, eyebrows and eyelashes are my own, unlike hers.
She proceeds to slap some cream on my face, telling me I desperately need exfoliating – my God! What’s she using? A patent and potent mix of Agent Orange, diamond chips and stainless steel gratings? It stings. I mention this.
“Yeah, well, it’s meant to take off the top layer, innit.”
I’m not altogether convinced that I want the top layer removed and allude to this. Nobody else complains, apparently.
I give up and suffer with clenched lips, as she proceeds to tell me about her fella and asks whether I think she should dump him and go out with Darren instead. I mention that Darren and I have not been introduced, so I couldn’t really give a valid opinion – “Oh, right, yeah”
She tells me about her holiday in Majorca, as she slaps more stingy stuff on. I try to go to my happy place, but they’ve moved it without telling me. I’m bloody paying for this; I can’t believe it.
Finally she says she’s finished with me for now, but I need to come back next week so we can do something about those lines.
“What exactly are we planning to do?” I ask “Botox?” “Nah, I’m not qualified, but Stace could do it for you, she’s just done a course.”
I demur gracelessly and say I’ll learn to live with them. Then I stare in dismay at my reddened face, and don’t say anything, because I think I’d cry. I’ve got quite nice skin normally, but now it appears like newly waxed legs: reddened and blotchy, and should it really itch? I looked better when I came in. Is this really good for my skin?
I go home to weep and drink vodka. Still, on the bright side, I didn't get a parking ticket.
This was just one of the reasons why I studied skin care; I thought that there had to be a kinder way to treat the skin. Surely skin treatments could be pleasurable as well as effective? Is it really necessary to suffer to be beautiful?
The answer to all those questions turned out to be Dr Hauschka. Kind, gentle, effective, organic and unique. Just like you and me, and our skin.
Why not try a little kindness and see how your skin responds? www.theorganicbeautician.com
*Yes, I know this should be 'mind my saying so', as it is a gerund, but I'm quoting from life, and her grammar, like her customer service skills, left something to the imagination.
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