Hello. How about we add another chapter to my memoir?
The following is a recall of my visit to a beauty parlour a few days ago. After having had two busy weeks, I thought that I finally had the chance to relax and just go sit there like a queen while they waxed me or whatever. When it feels like your skin is being ripped off, it makes you feel like a prisoner being tortured by his fellow gangsta inmates (like they show in movies. I have no practical experience).But that’s okay. Perspective matters.
What I thought would be an hour of relaxation resulted in an hour of confusion and a huge hole in my wallet. Waxing. The moment I told them the first job on the (already huge) list, I was handed over a verbal menu.
Which wax, maam?
After I had to spend one whole minute listening to how chocolate wax is superior to normal wax, I found myself in a difficult situation. Are they telling me this because they really care about my skin or because it’s expense can feed around 10 hungry kids in Africa?
Well, in the end, I opted for the chocolate one. I comforted myself by thinking that maybe this what they call “Investing resources for the betterment of thy self” in all those “Transform yourself for success” type of books.
I was not allowed to aimlessly daydream while being waxed. The parlour lady proceeded to tell me about a dozen things that were wrong with me. Either she is taking things too seriously or I am the one who is so lost in my own world (Which currently revolves around academics, food and Kunal Nayyar), that I couldn’t notice it.
She told me that I should get a clean-up (a huge process of getting your face cleaned through scrubbing, cleansing, steaming and did I mention that there is a part where they take a tool and get any whiteheads off your nose that makes you want to scream?).
I proceeded to ask about the need for it. I am very emotionally attached to my nose. I’ve always had a soft spot for it. We’ve been through a lot of things together. According to her, my nose had whiteheads.
What the hell are whiteheads? I know about blackheads. There was a tv advertisement featuring Alia Bhatt. But, whiteheads? My question baffled all the parlour girls like every other question that I have asked them till today, which makes me look like that pretty blonde girl who knows nothing. If only they were willing to have a conversation about Banking and Insurance with me.
When she told me what they were and convinced me what a huge gigantic problem it was that really needed to be addressed in life (Is that so?), I agreed to go for that whole clean-up session. During the removal of whiteheads using the needle, I was pretty brave (Can’t say that I didn’t scream a bit.I didn’t cry. That’s a big deal, okay?)
Let’s move on. Another lady was trimming my hair. As usual, the lecture about what was wrong with my hair began.
Your hair is so dry Sanika.
Don’t you apply conditioner?
Did I mention that I love my hair? It is so damn soft that if they were as long as Rapunzel’s hair, I’d wrap them around me as a blanket and sleep.
She asked me if I use serum. Here comes the 2nd blondie moment. What the heck is that? All I could imagine was some weird chemical stuff that stylists usually use. How is that related to me? Convinced that I was a hopeless case, she continued ranting about my dry hair (From which angle does it appear to be dry? Absolutely no clue). Eventually I just held my head down (I had to. She was cutting my hair) and continued sulking silently like a 5 year old child.
Lets skip to the nail paint. Life is like nail paint. It can get pretty messed up, at times. Convinced that I am a very busy woman (Like those out there in the corporate world) who needs someone else to do her nails, I sat like a queen and decided to make use of my purchasing power to indulge in a service resulting in pretty nails. I accidentally picked up something using my hand which destroyed the nail paint on it. I apologised and she reapplied it. After I thought that it was dry, I proceeded to grab my belongings. The moment I pulled the strap of my shoe to push my foot in, it got distorted. Again. Afraid of the dirty looks that she might give, I quickly thanked her and ran.
A trip to the beauty parlour can make you wise. And also, very annoyed. Just after you think that body hair is the only thing you need to take care of (which happens to be a constant reminder of being a woman), they put around 12 other major problems (apparently), in front of you that you need to address.
All this is still okay. The day that I truly fear is the day when one of them might say…
Parlour lady : Won’t you be getting that done, too, maam?
Me : Get what done?
Parlour lady : Brazillian wax!
I’d rather just die.