Beautyandthebeasts
I've had two beauty treatments in my whole life. I don't count leg-waxing as that is a necessary evil which stopped when I bought an epilator, known in our house as "The Delphine Machine". Both visits to Les Instituts de Beauté were in the last six months and both were birthday presents from very, very kind friends who are sick of buying me chocolate.
The first one was easiest as it was in St Pol, a small town, 10 minutes drive away. Even so it took me 8 months to get around to it and I had a fit of panic when I discovered I only had three days left before it expired.
"Hands". I said on the phone. "Lets do something with my hands".
Due to a careless attitude to gloves and being a dirt magnet, I have the hands of an 18th century canal-digger. They are in a bad way. A very bad way. Their appearance was not helped by the fact that I'd made blackcurrant jelly the day before and had mislaid my plastic gloves. My hands and nails were now dyed a deep purple which looked black.
I once phoned my Mum about this.
"How do you get blackcurrant stains from under your nails?"
"Bleach" she said instantly "Oh and scouring pads will get it off your hands."
This is her remedy for everything from gloss paint to marker pen and you only follow this sort of advice once.
So I tried lemon juice, then a sugar and margarine mixture which got a lot of it off but my hands still looked as if I had dug the Trent & Mersey canal without a shovel.
When I arrived I was a little disconcerted to be ushered into a small white room by a smiling lady in a white coat and asked to lie down on a couch. Frantically I ran through my calendar in my head. Had I had mistaken the day and come for a smear test?
Thankfully it was just my hands. To her credit the beautician didn't shudder or run off but filed, polished, scraped gently and applied creams and lotions and finally a "gomme" which was a bit like putty and sort of rolled up all the ingrained dirt. My hands had never been so clean - well not since the last time I made pastry.
My nails sparkled and shone. She hesitated over a drawer filled with bottles of nail polish and looked at me.
We shook our heads in unison.
Since then I spent the last three weeks in March gardening and we are back to square one
My second brush with a beautician was a couple of weeks ago and daringly I plumped for a facial treatment with essential oils. This was an hour long treatment at a salon in Arras. I arrived early and sat waiting to the sound of tinkling bells, pan pipes, water splashing from big bamboo pipes into a large pool, (that's what its sounded like to me but could just have been bad oriental plumbing ), and occasional temple gongs. I drink loads of water and the power of suggestion made me go for a pee twice in fifteen minutes.
This beautician, a dark-haired impeccably made-up lady with big gold hoop earrings looked at my gift card and showed me into a room. I hummed to myself as I took off my coat, unfazed by the white couch, the tasteful pale green and grey walls and the array of creams and lotions on the shelves. I knew what to expect, but the temple music was beginning to irritate.
What I didn't expect was that she would have me down to my jeans and bra within 20 seconds. Because of the facial massage she explained patiently and left the room. Under my t-shirt I was wearing an old black bra which had one strap that I had mended with huge tacking stitches and knots in red cotton. Sewing and I are not best pals.
I also had on a disreputable white cami with holes in. Stuffing the cami into my bag, I sat on the couch. Then I realized I needed to take my boots off and another problem surfaced.
I have a very relaxed attitude to socks, but today I had surpassed myself. I was wearing one of grandson's red Angry Bird socks and a pink and grey stripy affair with a grey donkey's face on it eating a carrot. I was standing there, clutching a white towel to my chest so the beautician wouldn't see my bra and think I was a charity case, and looking at them when she came back in.
She looked at my feet.
I looked at my feet.
Then we both looked up and grinned.
Oh Man! It was amazing. Even the temple gongs, pan pipes and splashing water seemed charming and delightful as I drifted off into world of aromatherapy oils, masques, massage and soft cotton cloths. So this is what rich people spend their money on I thought dreamily.
I arrived home on a tiny fluffy cloud of well-being and smooth, firm, shiny skin.
"I really need one of these every week." I said to Dave "Feel my face!"
"Course you can petal. How much was it?"
"65 Euro .. . . . er . . . . that's a no then I take it".
This beautician, a dark-haired impeccably made-up lady with big gold hoop earrings looked at my gift card and showed me into a room. I hummed to myself as I took off my coat, unfazed by the white couch, the tasteful pale green and grey walls and the array of creams and lotions on the shelves. I knew what to expect, but the temple music was beginning to irritate.
What I didn't expect was that she would have me down to my jeans and bra within 20 seconds. Because of the facial massage she explained patiently and left the room. Under my t-shirt I was wearing an old black bra which had one strap that I had mended with huge tacking stitches and knots in red cotton. Sewing and I are not best pals.
I also had on a disreputable white cami with holes in. Stuffing the cami into my bag, I sat on the couch. Then I realized I needed to take my boots off and another problem surfaced.
I have a very relaxed attitude to socks, but today I had surpassed myself. I was wearing one of grandson's red Angry Bird socks and a pink and grey stripy affair with a grey donkey's face on it eating a carrot. I was standing there, clutching a white towel to my chest so the beautician wouldn't see my bra and think I was a charity case, and looking at them when she came back in.
She looked at my feet.
I looked at my feet.
Then we both looked up and grinned.
Oh Man! It was amazing. Even the temple gongs, pan pipes and splashing water seemed charming and delightful as I drifted off into world of aromatherapy oils, masques, massage and soft cotton cloths. So this is what rich people spend their money on I thought dreamily.
I arrived home on a tiny fluffy cloud of well-being and smooth, firm, shiny skin.
"I really need one of these every week." I said to Dave "Feel my face!"
"Course you can petal. How much was it?"
"65 Euro .. . . . er . . . . that's a no then I take it".
