First, the creepy pedicure. Killing time on Monday afternoon at the hotel where I was staying, awaiting my return home, I decided I would get my nails done.
‘Take your clothes off and change into this sarong,’ said the beauty therapist.
‘Excuse me?’ I said, because I have never had a pedicure that did not involve me sitting fully clothed (except my socks) in a hilarious jerky massage chair, reading Heat magazine while a tough woman scraped my heels with something resembling a cheese grater.
She repeated her instruction. And so, because I am a compulsive people-pleaser (I’m working on this, really I am) I complied. Shortly thereafter, I found myself lying on a bed under a starchy white sheet in my underwear; a hefty lavender-filled pillow over my eyes; horrible plinky plonky guitar music playing on a loop; a small, sweet woman stroking pink nail polish on to my feet.
I lay completely still like that for an hour and a half and it was quite literally one of the most disturbing experiences of my life. Yet because I knew that I was supposed to be enjoying it, that this was meant to be highly luxurious, I didn’t ask the therapist to stop.
Shudder.
Second: having recovered, I decided to go to my local salon to get my eyebrows threaded this evening. They were looking a little more Einstein than Edelstein. The therapist expertly ripped out the extra hairs in elegant lines and I was very happy. But then, all of a sudden, before I could rise from the chair, she started slapping wax all over the rest of my face.
Now, like many women (especially those with darker hair) I do indulge in a bit of facial hair removal once in a while. I’m not ashamed. But I hadn’t asked for it and the presumptuous wax-spreading made me feel insulted and marginalised; deprived of my hair removal agency. I mean, what if I wanted a mustache? What if I was working on a special facial hair-growing project? I left feeling remarkably displeased. Albeit smooth.
