|Growing old gracefully - John Currin|
However the guilt of such an indulgence hampers the drifting off and the practical, no-nonsense, get things done side of me tells me to get myself off that bed and fix a shelf, run a marathon or get involved in world affairs. Stop wasting time and money on such vacuous female nonsense. Well, too late. Because for one hour only, the sweet, thoughtful man of my house has sent me for some indulgent ladytime in the hands of one lovely young creature at the Cowshed.
So i'm lying on the examination/therapy table and I'm wanting to give the 'therapist' the impression of someone who regularly cleanses and buffs but instead I'm aware of my gulping in moments when she is surely thinking "she must be drifting off, I've got her, job done".
But then come the extractions! For those who haven't experienced this Victorian ritual, it is a moment, or in my case a rather extended one, where your 'therapist' starts squeezing and no doubt squirting all sorts of debris and delights out of your pores. Now I don't think I can be alone in this when I say that the disarming nature of this procedure is the only thing that stops me from walking out. Yes, I am thrilled to know that my head is now half its salon arrival weight but I'd managed quite well before this appointment hadn't I?
Post masks and more creams I then get a break down of all the 'work' just done and I'm starting to reach for my wallet. What potions can this white witch subscribe? I've gone from being a cleanse and moisturise once a day kind of girl to a serum queen who needs a shopping list of kit to stop my 'mature'-What!!! (36, give me a break cause I'm supposed to be enjoying this.)- skin from rapidly aging.
And then the time comes when the 'therapist' very quietly leaves the room - do they move around like that at home too? It's making me feel very big and oafish as I stumble to pull on my tops and fumble with my dirty old converse - before you are invited to head over to the reception and pay quite a lot of money for a very shiny, greasy face. 'How much? Oh...!(nervous smile)- no, I won't be needing the shopping list today but I might pop in next week if I'm prepared to not eat for a month'.
I leave,walking out into the polluted streets of London, with a greasy hair line and abnormally oily looking skin and have a 5 minute moment where I think, yes, I must keep this up ... before being burped back to reality with four noisy boys whose only comment is 'what happened to your face?' Thanks though, boss man.x