See, I'm not an ugly lady. But because I've been working so damned hard, and so long, and there's no real end in sight just yet, my broker decided to treat me to a day of beauty at a salon in Beverly Hills.
His motives were good.
So it's not like I've never been in BH before; I go there fairly regularly. I don't shop there, oh no...but I do go there. I manage to get snarled in traffic, and my appointment is for 11 am. I pull into the very well hidden underground parking place, after calling my broker and having him give me real-time directions...I'm late, not too bad, but it's a Beverly Hills salon, for cripes sake...
Get checked in, and into the changing room. A sweet lady stands there, waiting. I'm not sure what she's waiting for, and I'm not sure what to do next. We kind of look at each other, and I decide "well, there's nothing here she's not seen before," and yank off my top. Of course, she's never seen me before, and she leaves the changing room rapidly. A moment or two later, an arm extends itself in, holding a very plush terry robe. Finally understanding what I'm supposed to have done, I take the robe, and hand the disembodied arm my purse. I fold up my clothes (keeping on my panties and bra), and look around for where I'm supposed to store them...and see the hanger with the claim tag attached. Finally I'm organized, and I exit into the lobby. And am immediately taken around the corner...the changing room had two doors, not that I'd noticed...
I am so not foo foo.
I meet Jessica, the sauna girl. She leads me to the sauna, and I drop my robe. She murmurs "you might be more comfortable if you removed your underclothes," and I realize she's right. But I don't want to get naked in front of someone I don't know...so she leaves me for a brief moment "to get some water for you" and while she's gone (undoubtedly telling everyone she's got a dingbat in sauna 4), I slip out of my underthings. I tuck them into the deep pockets of the robe, hoping against hope that I can keep that with me. The arm comes in again, and I take the bottle of water offered. The hand limply waves, and so I grudgingly hand her my robe.
I am naked in a sauna in Beverly Hills.
It's hot in here. I pour some of the water over my head because I'm overheating. 10 minutes or 3 hours later (I don't know which because they've got no clocks in here) the gentle chimes go off. In comes the hand with the robe. I'm sweating like a goof, of course, and my hair is plastered to my head. She does a double take, and asks "are you, um, all right?" Sure, I reply, nodding vigorously. How to tell her that this is the weirdest thing I've experienced in a long while? I don't, just smile.
I meet Tom. Big hunking guy, gigantic hands. He's the masseuse. I follow him down marble hallways with wonderful paintings. I stop to look at one more closely, and he discreetly coughs. Embarrassed, I hustle behind him, and follow him into a dark room with a fountain. He puts on some esoteric "relaxation" music, and hands me a towel. "Please drape yourself and lie face down on the bench." I look over, and see a leather padded bench with a hole cut into it for my face. I try to get on the table, drape myself and remove my robe at the same time...and everything lands on the floor. With what little grace I have left, I gather the towel and lay down on the table...sticking my face into that little hole. Which of course is Tom's invitation to start pouring oils and unguents onto my back.
Tom pounds, pushes, stretches, and kneads my back into submission, and then gets to work on my legs. I'm laying there, knowing there will be a pressure circle plastered onto my face, and this giant of a man starts working on my feet. Well, I'm ticklish...'nough said. Shortly after this, he goes back to my back, and moves to the shoulders and neck...more oils and unguents, more trying to make my muscles leave my bones, and now it's done.
I'm going to break out from this, I just know it.
Back into the robe, and this time I'm given slippers to wear. Back out we walk, to the shampooist. Tom says good bye, and he was glad he could help me relax. HAH! The shampooist leans me back, nestles my sore neck into the cradle, and proceeds to wash my hair. And the robe starts slipping apart. We're private, but still, it's my privates I'm thinking about. I stick a hand up, and immediately cold cold water floods my head. She thought the water was too hot...and all I want is to get clothed. "Just another moment," she whispers. And sure enough, it's just another moment and I'm washed and ready for the stylist...
Thank God for jeans.
I scramble back into my underclothes and jeans, but they've told me to leave my shirt off. Fine....and now I get a maroon cloth robe to drape myself with. Which I do, but can't find the ties. So as I march to the stylist, disembodied hands snake around me with the ties. I nonchalantly tie myself together as I'm approaching the hair guy.
I am not yet having fun. I wonder what's happening at the office....
As I sit, I can see his eyes twinkling. My hair measures 40 inches from crown to tip. He is eager to get his scissors snipping. "What's my limit" Paul asks..."No higher than my bra strap, and lower if we can get away with it," I respond. "Sure, no problems..." and snip snip snip and there is easily 9 inches of hair laying on the floor. "The latest Vogue says that hair is considered too long if it goes to your brastrap," Paul volunteers. "I don't read Vogue," I answer. "Bottom of the bra strap." He deflates a bit, but does as I ask...to the bare minimum.
I wish they didn't have mirrors in this place.
He waves Lisa over. She's the colorist "to the stars" as my boss puts it. "Well, Michele, what color do you want?" Oh, see, now, I just thought I'd get a highlight or two..."no, you've got some grey. Let's get rid of that, and then we'll put in some golden and reddish gold highlights. All right?" Oh well fine. Whatever. My back hurts, I'm still feeling slimy from the oils, and I am so out of my element it's not at all funny.
Out come the foil strips, and two assistants start to brush out my now rather short hair (short to me...man, it's short to me...). Lisa stands there and starts to color my hair, and I just shut my eyes. Whatever. I'm doomed. About 15 minutes later, acrid amonia assaulting my nose, she takes me to the back again. This time, I'm laid down, my shoes are removed, more "restful" music is played, a cappucino and a turkey wrap appears, and the manicurist shows up. How am I supposed to eat or drink when my hands are being massaged and oiled and my nails are being done? Oh yeah, when the polish is wet and she's moved down to my feet....so I do, and of course I don't know how to eat with wet polish on my nails (I suppose this is something they teach you in modeling school. I didn't go to modeling school.). My right hand has to be redone, and now it's time to take the tin hat off.
I wanna go home...
My hair looks nice, but they are busy putting more foil and highlights on. And we repeat the whole process sans manicurist. I'm still clinging to the cappucino (at least it's familiar), and being walked around, put under the heater thing and then laid down again at the wash-basin. "Lay back and relax," so I do as I'm told. Suddenly, there's hot wax being applied to my eyebrows. I try to crank my eyelid up, but I can't move it. "This is Cara, the eyebrow stylist." "Hi, Cara. Leave my eyebrows alone, please," and she responds to that request with "oh, my dahlin, you just need a bit of a touch-up. They will still be there when we're done." I feel the pain of the hair being pulled out by their roots, and realize it's too late. I'd better just let her be or I'll end up without eyebrows, or with crooked eyebrows.
My eyes are watering. I'm really not crying.
And then Lisa comes back over, daubs my eyebrows with the same stuff she's used on my head, and washes me clean. She gently wipes my eyebrows off, and takes me back to the haircutter guy. Paul instructs his assistant to dry me well, and stands there, finger to lips, considering. "Honey, your hair is so pretty. Let's take it up to your shoulders." By now, my patience is thin, my tolerance is thinner, and I tell him brusquely no. He sighs, and says "well, it's your head," (and inside I scream "no kidding, brain surgeon dude. MY head!) and I just smile tiredly. He shapes it and combs it and flicks his scissors at me, reminding me of a toreodore planting a spear in the bull, and I shudder. "Are you cold, dahlin?" No, I'm fine, I murmur.
Another cappucino appears. I grasp it like it's a life ring.
And now, we're done. I'm stood up and led by the hand to the colorist for her approval, and she thinks it's nice. I think it's nice, too, but it's going to take some getting used to. My nails are bright purple and my hair is light brown with highlights, and Paul, the hair cutter, tries one more time...."are you sure, hon? You'd look great a little shorter." I turn and look at him...."we are at the bra strap. It is where I want it. You did a glorious job, but if I don't leave now, I'll hit traffic and miss my St. Patrick's Day date."
I am walked to the front, and all are complementary. They're paid to be so, I think, so I smile and kissy kissy mutter putter my way out to the valet. He gets my car, and brings it around. And to my utter surprise, he says "Ma'am, if you don't mind me saying, you look wonderful. They did all right by you." And I smile, and think "maybe it's not so bad after all..."
I won't be doing a day of beauty again anytime soon. It's tiring, and not something I think I could ever get used to...but I sent my boss some flowers to say thanks. He'll see my new look tomorrow (along with all my other colleagues), and I'm sure he'll be happy. His heart is indeed in the right place.
Best-
Michele
His motives were good.
So it's not like I've never been in BH before; I go there fairly regularly. I don't shop there, oh no...but I do go there. I manage to get snarled in traffic, and my appointment is for 11 am. I pull into the very well hidden underground parking place, after calling my broker and having him give me real-time directions...I'm late, not too bad, but it's a Beverly Hills salon, for cripes sake...
Get checked in, and into the changing room. A sweet lady stands there, waiting. I'm not sure what she's waiting for, and I'm not sure what to do next. We kind of look at each other, and I decide "well, there's nothing here she's not seen before," and yank off my top. Of course, she's never seen me before, and she leaves the changing room rapidly. A moment or two later, an arm extends itself in, holding a very plush terry robe. Finally understanding what I'm supposed to have done, I take the robe, and hand the disembodied arm my purse. I fold up my clothes (keeping on my panties and bra), and look around for where I'm supposed to store them...and see the hanger with the claim tag attached. Finally I'm organized, and I exit into the lobby. And am immediately taken around the corner...the changing room had two doors, not that I'd noticed...
I am so not foo foo.
I meet Jessica, the sauna girl. She leads me to the sauna, and I drop my robe. She murmurs "you might be more comfortable if you removed your underclothes," and I realize she's right. But I don't want to get naked in front of someone I don't know...so she leaves me for a brief moment "to get some water for you" and while she's gone (undoubtedly telling everyone she's got a dingbat in sauna 4), I slip out of my underthings. I tuck them into the deep pockets of the robe, hoping against hope that I can keep that with me. The arm comes in again, and I take the bottle of water offered. The hand limply waves, and so I grudgingly hand her my robe.
I am naked in a sauna in Beverly Hills.
It's hot in here. I pour some of the water over my head because I'm overheating. 10 minutes or 3 hours later (I don't know which because they've got no clocks in here) the gentle chimes go off. In comes the hand with the robe. I'm sweating like a goof, of course, and my hair is plastered to my head. She does a double take, and asks "are you, um, all right?" Sure, I reply, nodding vigorously. How to tell her that this is the weirdest thing I've experienced in a long while? I don't, just smile.
I meet Tom. Big hunking guy, gigantic hands. He's the masseuse. I follow him down marble hallways with wonderful paintings. I stop to look at one more closely, and he discreetly coughs. Embarrassed, I hustle behind him, and follow him into a dark room with a fountain. He puts on some esoteric "relaxation" music, and hands me a towel. "Please drape yourself and lie face down on the bench." I look over, and see a leather padded bench with a hole cut into it for my face. I try to get on the table, drape myself and remove my robe at the same time...and everything lands on the floor. With what little grace I have left, I gather the towel and lay down on the table...sticking my face into that little hole. Which of course is Tom's invitation to start pouring oils and unguents onto my back.
Tom pounds, pushes, stretches, and kneads my back into submission, and then gets to work on my legs. I'm laying there, knowing there will be a pressure circle plastered onto my face, and this giant of a man starts working on my feet. Well, I'm ticklish...'nough said. Shortly after this, he goes back to my back, and moves to the shoulders and neck...more oils and unguents, more trying to make my muscles leave my bones, and now it's done.
I'm going to break out from this, I just know it.
Back into the robe, and this time I'm given slippers to wear. Back out we walk, to the shampooist. Tom says good bye, and he was glad he could help me relax. HAH! The shampooist leans me back, nestles my sore neck into the cradle, and proceeds to wash my hair. And the robe starts slipping apart. We're private, but still, it's my privates I'm thinking about. I stick a hand up, and immediately cold cold water floods my head. She thought the water was too hot...and all I want is to get clothed. "Just another moment," she whispers. And sure enough, it's just another moment and I'm washed and ready for the stylist...
Thank God for jeans.
I scramble back into my underclothes and jeans, but they've told me to leave my shirt off. Fine....and now I get a maroon cloth robe to drape myself with. Which I do, but can't find the ties. So as I march to the stylist, disembodied hands snake around me with the ties. I nonchalantly tie myself together as I'm approaching the hair guy.
I am not yet having fun. I wonder what's happening at the office....
As I sit, I can see his eyes twinkling. My hair measures 40 inches from crown to tip. He is eager to get his scissors snipping. "What's my limit" Paul asks..."No higher than my bra strap, and lower if we can get away with it," I respond. "Sure, no problems..." and snip snip snip and there is easily 9 inches of hair laying on the floor. "The latest Vogue says that hair is considered too long if it goes to your brastrap," Paul volunteers. "I don't read Vogue," I answer. "Bottom of the bra strap." He deflates a bit, but does as I ask...to the bare minimum.
I wish they didn't have mirrors in this place.
He waves Lisa over. She's the colorist "to the stars" as my boss puts it. "Well, Michele, what color do you want?" Oh, see, now, I just thought I'd get a highlight or two..."no, you've got some grey. Let's get rid of that, and then we'll put in some golden and reddish gold highlights. All right?" Oh well fine. Whatever. My back hurts, I'm still feeling slimy from the oils, and I am so out of my element it's not at all funny.
Out come the foil strips, and two assistants start to brush out my now rather short hair (short to me...man, it's short to me...). Lisa stands there and starts to color my hair, and I just shut my eyes. Whatever. I'm doomed. About 15 minutes later, acrid amonia assaulting my nose, she takes me to the back again. This time, I'm laid down, my shoes are removed, more "restful" music is played, a cappucino and a turkey wrap appears, and the manicurist shows up. How am I supposed to eat or drink when my hands are being massaged and oiled and my nails are being done? Oh yeah, when the polish is wet and she's moved down to my feet....so I do, and of course I don't know how to eat with wet polish on my nails (I suppose this is something they teach you in modeling school. I didn't go to modeling school.). My right hand has to be redone, and now it's time to take the tin hat off.
I wanna go home...
My hair looks nice, but they are busy putting more foil and highlights on. And we repeat the whole process sans manicurist. I'm still clinging to the cappucino (at least it's familiar), and being walked around, put under the heater thing and then laid down again at the wash-basin. "Lay back and relax," so I do as I'm told. Suddenly, there's hot wax being applied to my eyebrows. I try to crank my eyelid up, but I can't move it. "This is Cara, the eyebrow stylist." "Hi, Cara. Leave my eyebrows alone, please," and she responds to that request with "oh, my dahlin, you just need a bit of a touch-up. They will still be there when we're done." I feel the pain of the hair being pulled out by their roots, and realize it's too late. I'd better just let her be or I'll end up without eyebrows, or with crooked eyebrows.
My eyes are watering. I'm really not crying.
And then Lisa comes back over, daubs my eyebrows with the same stuff she's used on my head, and washes me clean. She gently wipes my eyebrows off, and takes me back to the haircutter guy. Paul instructs his assistant to dry me well, and stands there, finger to lips, considering. "Honey, your hair is so pretty. Let's take it up to your shoulders." By now, my patience is thin, my tolerance is thinner, and I tell him brusquely no. He sighs, and says "well, it's your head," (and inside I scream "no kidding, brain surgeon dude. MY head!) and I just smile tiredly. He shapes it and combs it and flicks his scissors at me, reminding me of a toreodore planting a spear in the bull, and I shudder. "Are you cold, dahlin?" No, I'm fine, I murmur.
Another cappucino appears. I grasp it like it's a life ring.
And now, we're done. I'm stood up and led by the hand to the colorist for her approval, and she thinks it's nice. I think it's nice, too, but it's going to take some getting used to. My nails are bright purple and my hair is light brown with highlights, and Paul, the hair cutter, tries one more time...."are you sure, hon? You'd look great a little shorter." I turn and look at him...."we are at the bra strap. It is where I want it. You did a glorious job, but if I don't leave now, I'll hit traffic and miss my St. Patrick's Day date."
I am walked to the front, and all are complementary. They're paid to be so, I think, so I smile and kissy kissy mutter putter my way out to the valet. He gets my car, and brings it around. And to my utter surprise, he says "Ma'am, if you don't mind me saying, you look wonderful. They did all right by you." And I smile, and think "maybe it's not so bad after all..."
I won't be doing a day of beauty again anytime soon. It's tiring, and not something I think I could ever get used to...but I sent my boss some flowers to say thanks. He'll see my new look tomorrow (along with all my other colleagues), and I'm sure he'll be happy. His heart is indeed in the right place.
Best-
Michele
