My name’s Lucy and I cheated on my beauty therapist. There, I’ve said it. When it comes to body hair, there’s just no hiding infidelity. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. Only bushier.
I don’t mean to stray but it’s all down to convenience. I have three salons on speed dial: One near my home (primary), one near my workplace (secondary) and one in the city centre (completely ad-hoc). Where I go depends entirely on where I’ll be on that given week since I’m just not forwarding thinking enough to book my next appointment after each visit. It’s a curse. Moreover, my waxer is also my facialist and eyebrow threader, so it’s pretty damn obvious when I’ve done the dirty on her. “Do you need your underarms doing today…?” she enquires, having expertly completed a lush Yon-ka facial. “Erm, no, I’m ok thanks…” I flounder, knowing full well that she’s working out the dates since my last depilation and concluding that I’m a duplicitous little cow. That, or the unlikely event that I’ve decided to cultivate hamster pits.
One forges a relationship with a beauty therapist like no other. Lulled into a false sense of security under those ambient treatment room lights and delicious aromatherapy diffusers, not only do beauty therapists bear witness to your short and curlies, they also becomes privy to your hopes, dreams and, of course, holiday plans. So, what is the etiquette when you’ve quite cheated on her physically and emotionally? “But it didn’t mean anything…” won’t cut the mustard, especially when you’re promiscuous for reasons other than lousy time management, ie, you prefer one therapist for waxing, another for threading, another for manicures, etc. In that case, well, you’re doomed – an eternal philandering fibber.
Cheating on one’s hairdresser though is an entirely different matter. My barnet is unequivocally sacred, and five-years into a budding relationship, only Maria’s Magic Scissors are allowed near it. If she moves to Donegal then, well, I’d better get a car and a mobile home. Which puts me in quite a conundrum: I was recently gifted a voucher for a rival salon, and, given my unwillingness to trichologically turncoat, my only option is to redeem it with a year’s supply of styling products. A blow-dry from a stranger simply won’t do.
Aer Lingus CARA deputy editor, Lucy White @lucywhitedublin