You know there are times you just feel the need to bare your soul, so to speak, and if you’re lucky, you have someone close to whom you can vent your spleen.
Your spiritual leader, your doctor, your psychiatrist can also fill the bill, while you foot the bill for their professional or heavenly guidance – but I can tell you there is a much cheaper alternative, and far more anonymous than any of these.
I refer to your beautician. Whether she’s cutting your hair or painting your nails, you can spill it all and she will be a most sympathetic ear.
There I was over the weekend having my less than lovely feet seen to. Oh, I’m sure with a bit of effort I could see to them myself, but they’re a good five and a half feet away from my head for a start, and I’m far too lazy anyway.
In the spa area were three customers, and three ladies attending to our toes, and I would hazard a guess that middle age had passed us all by some years ago. So, it was only natural, I suppose in my wildest dreams, that the conversation among the six of us should turn to – oh I blush to think about it. And men, you may wish to leave the room lest you come over all unnecessary at this point and I won’t be offended.
The laughter started when one of the beauticians, who had very happily announced to us that she was going through menopause as we spoke, thence regaled us with the rigors of her morning. Having a spare hour in her schedule, but not having an additional beautician on hand, she decided she would give herself a Brazilian. An auto-Brazilian, or a Brazilian-selfie if you will.
Now I’ve never had, nor will I ever have one, but I hear the process of removing all hair from one’s, shall we say, most private nether regions, is the absolute bees’ knees and the perfect thing to do. And I do mean every last follicle.
This gal had to have been in her 50s, and to hear her describe the process involving several of the most difficult yoga poses, combined with her glasses slipping down her nose, and with a mirror, hot wax and rip-off strips at the ready had me amongst myself with something close to hysteria.
She actually managed to one-up herself, if you’ll pardon the expression, when she blithely went on about her husband’s vasectomy. Rather than have him suffer the ignominy of being shaved in a barbaric way, she gave him – with his blessing I might add – a full Brazilian so that he could arrive and display his naked wares to the surgeon, who I will add was mighty impressed.
The look on Sir’s face while I regaled him with this story was a true Kodak moment with phrases like “never in a million years” being bandied about.
So, dear reader, save a huge amount of money – go get your toes done. There’s no telling what juicy bits you’ll hear, or what you can divulge within the sanctity of the pedi-confessional.
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at email@example.com.