Facials: the new cannabis

Today I went to the beautician. Once upon a time that would just have meant it was the second pay fortnight of the month, which is when I always went to the beautician and had a facial and waxed anything that needed it and tinted the eyelashes and got a pedicure. Not all at once, but there was a pleasing regularity about the visits that meant for about $70 a month I could look reasonably presentable to the outside world.

Then I had a baby. And while the visits didn’t stop they became less regular and more linked to special occasions like anniversary dinners and birthdays and summer.

Then I had two more babies. And the visits stopped.

But today I went to the beautician and used up a really quite generous voucher that the Prof had presented me at Christmas.

The voucher was for an aromatherapy facial and a ‘body polish’. I don’t know what nymph-ish fantasy the Prof was engaged in at the time he bought the voucher but this 38-year-old, 3-child body will.never.be.polished.again. And certainly not by some 20 year old chick with perky boobs and no cellulite.

So, the body polish was exchanged for a full treatment pedicure spa, and eyebrow waxing and eyelash tinting were added in cos, what the hell, it could be another three years before I get back there again, and I was led into girlie nirvana…

That was four hours ago and I don’t know what the fuck they put in exfoliant these days but I have felt seriously stoned since just before the face mask went on.

Let’s check off the list, shall we?

Overflowing with well-being and goodwill.

Constantly nodding off.

Really, really hungry.

It will be interesting to see if I get paranoid over dinner.

Was it something in the steamer? Maybe the nailologist keeps her stash there and forgot to take it out.

Was it something in my pores released by the steamer? Because, seriously, there could well be residue in there from this houseboat trip we took with a bunch of friends just before I fell pregnant the first time.

Whatever it was, the only criticism I have is that it damaged my judgement in the toenail colour department so that when I thought I’d picked a nice bronze I’ve actually got a kind of Elvira purple.

But then again, maybe that’s because the nailologist finally found her stash.

And, because this was such a momentous occasion, I am willing to share a photo of my very ugly foot to prove that the work has, indeed, been done.