Beauty Treatment

Facial Mask  -  Wikipedia






Hello, come in, how are you?

I'll be with you in half a mo. Hop on.

There we are, is this comfortable?

Are you warm enough? We don't really need the towels, do we?

She wipes my eyebrows, then proceeds to pluck them.

That's fine, not a lot today.

She puts on eyebrow tint.

We'll let this sit for a minute.

That's fine, all done.

I'll just lower the couch and switch off the big light.

A narrow towel is wrapped around my hair. I shuffle about a bit on the couch, making myself comfortable. I relax and close my eyes. The process of deep cleansing begins. Cool, small, deft fingers wipe the last vestiges of tension from my eyes.

Ah, avocado and ginseng today, smells good enough to eat.

I'd better pop into the greengrocers on the way home, 
we could do with some fresh veg, some carrots, broccoli and maybe an avocado or two for  salad. 
There's enough time to prepare a salad lunch. 
I don't suppose Beloved has remembered to get bread out of the freezer; 
a French roll shouldn't take too long to defrost.


Flat palms and fingertips smooth and massage a layer of cleansing cream into face and neck.

Has she got my collar tucked in safely? 
Shouldn't have put a clean shirt on before coming here. 
Some of the cream is bound to rub off.  
It's a question of doing just the centre or going in deep and messing up my shirt. 
Too late now to take it off. 
The ironing, oh hell, did I remember to switch the iron off? 
I must have done. 
Will Beloved notice? Probably not. 


Men! 

The massage proper is starting. Fifteen minutes of sheer bliss. I snuggle deeper into the soft couch. Experienced hands perform a dance of repetitive movements across my face, under my chin, around the eye sockets, circling and stroking and patting and drumming.

I drift off.


Ah, lovely, more please, more.

.I wonder if that boy is going to be any good while Gardener is away. 
He looked a bit like he was borderline Down's. 
Funny that he should bring his Mum along. 
Why do they marry their cousins round here? 
Down's is nothing to do with in-breeding, or is it? 
Must get started on the Larsson trilogy soon, 
Damn blogging, I don't read enough since I've started. 
Lots of my favourite bloggers seem to be away at the moment. 
Wonder how Suze is getting on with her sister. 
And Debs, haven't heard from her for ages. 
At least my favourite Edwardians are still around.
Would that Amnesty tea party make a post?
Perhaps a bit too fragmented? 
And personal?
Sally hasn't confirmed Andrew's birthday do yet; 
if she leaves it much longer there'll be something else in the diary. 
Hope she can arrange for a car and driver for all of us; 
a party without drink ? No thanks.
God, I still haven't been to see Audrey, I am such a cow, always promising to visit and never going. 
Poor Audrey, she can't help going ga-ga.  
Everybody is getting so damn old. 
Is it poetry on Thursday? 
I must find a couple of poems on birds. 
The others are bound to bring the Romantics, 
I'll have to look out some new poets, 
shock them out of their cosy complacency. 
God, I am a cow. 
Always stirring things up. 
Why can't I leave people be? 
Why must they be so boring?


No don't stop, Pleeeeaaase.

The massage is finished. Similar movements continue for another two minutes, this time to remove the massage cream, using cleanser and witchhazel.

It's time for the mask: a balancing mask for the 'T' zone, (forehead, nose, chin) containing kaolin and peach kernel. A soothing mask for cheeks and neck, containing aloe vera. This is the part where I usually doze off for 5 minutes. Witchhazel pads on my eyes mean that I couldn't open them even if I wanted. I don't. If I allowed myself to feel embarrassed, now would be the time. I don't.

The beautician tells me what she does with each new process, otherwise there is silence; there is the faintest hint of Classics For The Retarded in the background, played on an instrument which sounds like a harp for a web-fingered dwarf; I have no difficulty shutting the sound out altogether.  Perhaps I'm snoring.

Five minutes later and the idyll is over. The mask comes off, the beautician rubs at my face, hard. No more 'Miss Nice Guy'. A cleansing cream takes the last bits of plaster off, the big light comes back on,  and the pore police appears on the scene. Any remaining criminal blockage is attacked mercilessly by means of a metal squeezing tool, probably invented during the Spanish Inquisition;  the beautician's face is now so close to mine that I feel claustrophobia coming on.

Ouch! That hurt!

She slaps witchhazel all over my face, it feels very cold on my warm skin and I wake up fully. She pads me dry and her fingertips follow with a very thin layer of moisturiser to finish the job. The towel comes off. She hands me a mirror and picks up her diary.

Lovely. All done. Your skin feels gorgeous, so soft.

Three weeks?