There’s nothing quite like the thought of a visit to the local beauty salon. In fact, it’s infinitely more preferable if the salon isn’t local at all.
That way, you can at least be assured of some decent time away – even if it is time spent in the car. Such appointments are much anticipated and built up beyond all reasonable proportion. There are not many who can promise rejuvenation, rebalancing and relaxation – all within an hour’s appointment slot.
The anticipation is overwhelming. Images abound of time spent lounging in a pristine robe, or of peacefully contemplating the meaning of life from the tranquillity of an infinity pool. The expectation heightens to a heady mix of heat and empowering aromas, with a sensory experience of the regenerating benefits of the earth’s natural elements.
Sadly, the much anticipated experience often fails to deliver. The hour – more often than not – isn’t spent enjoying a state of bodily bliss, but rather a frenzy of fuss and fidgeting. It’s a constant battle trying to avoid the overwhelming urge to peep out from under the eye mask, just to check that you haven’t actually been left for dead. This state of turmoil is largely due to the soft hand placed briefly on your shoulder and the parting, whispered words, ‘just relax.’ If your nose doesn’t itch, your eyes will water with the acerbic essential oils, and you’ll either be sweltering on a heated bed that’s burning your bottom, or blindly foraging for another towel to put over your freezing shoulders.
To add insult to injury is the whopping great bill at the end of the experience – by which point your ears are likely to be bleeding from over-exposure to Peruvian panpipes. The alternative doesn’t really offer much by way of inspiration either. Salon-style treatments in the comfort of your own home are neither relaxing nor faintly reminiscent of a spa.
It’s impossible to recreate an ambience of earthy opulence when you can’t stop scrutinising the mouldy tile grout in the bathroom. A rebalanced woman does not tut as she drips water and exfoliating body scrub all over the carpet, whilst frantically searching amid the vax spares and accessories in the under stairs cupboard, in a bid to hunt out something suitable with which to pummel her cellulite. It’s also unlikely that Carole King on repeat will do much to help in this quest to feel like a natural woman.
This post has been kindly sponsored by the lovely people at Isme.