Saturday, August 26, 2006

Oh la laaaa

I spent most of yesterday at the Red Door Spa in Mayfair. Robert had bought me a sort of day package there for my birthday, and I'd been saving it up to use ahead of the wedding.

I arrived like a tightly wound clock, and left as though I'd spent the afternoon doing something of a more illegal nature – drifting along with a contended expression on my face. In total I had a facial, eyebrow shaping, all-over body massage, and pedicure. I also had a conditioning treatment for my hair and had it blown out. The all-over body massage performed by Margarita was superb by the way – highly recommended!

Since we started planning the wedding I had been determined not to morph into a Bridezilla who's every sentence starts with, “My wedding...”.

Friend: So, I've been told by the doctor I need a quadruple bypass
Me: Well, at my wedding I'm having a quadruple bypass table, there'll be four of you in total – so don’t worry about it.

No Siree, that wasn’t going to be me. So I decided I would only talk about it if someone brought up the subject first, and then keep it short before steering the conversation onto other topics. After a year or so of this, I finally decided to give in and spent most of yesterday talking to the various beauticians who tended to my body about the planning, how Robert asked me, my dress, my shoes, the food, the this, the that - etc. These women were a willing and captive audience, and whenever I thought I was done, they’d fire yet another question at me: “So is it worth having a planner?” or “Are you having a singles table?” or “Are you having a Brazilian wax before?” etc. In the case of the latter, the answer was a resounding "No." Been there, suffered the great pain and indignity of it, not going back, thank you very much for asking.

My hairstylist was a lovely young slip of a thing called Isabel. With dark hair, and a certain willowy English rose quality, Isabel had the misfortune of recently having split up with her boyfriend of three years. She confessed that she'd driven the man away by forcing the 'let's get married' issue one time too many. The chap had gathered his belongings and headed for South Africa - though, in fairness to her, it was work related. But I imagine the timing felt like he was not just breaking up with her, but moving as far away as possible to escape.

Isabel was determined to wait for him, and was passionate about the fact that they could still make things work, despite the fact that he had told her "You might meet someone, I might meet someone" - usually a sure-fire sign that a guy has no intention of doing any waiting on his part. I imagined him sitting at some or other bar in Kimberly buying the girls drinks, and thinking to himself - “I’ll just have my fun, and if nothing comes of it, there’s always Isabel back at home – bless her”.

She expressed her passion and hopefulness for a reunion through her treatment of my hair. And my head massage (something which usually has me feeling like a cat in a catnip field) felt as though she were trying, with great gusto and dexterity, to scalp me. Every time she mentioned his name, she issued another vigorous bolt of pain through my head.

The blow-drying after was not much better. I struggled to hear her over the noise of hot hair being blown into by ear, not helped by the fact that she would dramatically mouth certain words over the din such as: 'His mother' or 'His ex-girlfriend' as though someone might be listening in. She was also in the habit of exclaiming, 'That's lovely!' to almost everything I said, and is the only person that I've ever come across, apart from low rent comedians trying to put on a French act and failing miserably, to use the phrase, 'Ooh la laaaa'. This was repeated a number of times when inspecting the finished product that was my head of hair. In all fairness to Isabel, and despite the great pain I suffered as a result of her passionate unrequited love - my hair looked fantastic. Shiny, well-conditioned, and a great blow job. Oh la laaaa.

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