Once upon a time (say, like, Saturday) a young(ish) mother - let's call her Irene, or I for short - decided to take some time for herself and booked a facial. It was the first facial I had had for years. The beautician took one look at her desperately unnurtured, early wrinkling skin and tutted under her breath. She set to work. I cried. It was a deep cleanse facial. It hurt. Her husband didn't get it later that day when I tried to explain to him how painful the whole event had been. He believed she had been pampered and spoilt all morning.
The next day I woke up with teenage skin. Not in the plump, moisture-rich, elastic sense of the word. More like the oily, pimply, hormone-bedevilled leprosy break-out definition. Now she feels miserable and sore. Plus I may be on the verge of an impetigo infection. Drat!
I hates beauticians.
(What's the bet the grammar check is going to get quite constipated about that last sentence!)
1 comment:
so are facials off the agenda for The Visit?
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