(no subject)
Today, somewhere in the backwaters of the Manchester area, I was subjected to a hideous torture that I wouldn't wish upon anyone.
The last time I volunteered I was pleasantly surprised at how painless and, dare I say, enjoyable the experience was. Not 24 hours after the end of a 2+year relationship, I was pampered by a particularly agreeable fellow named Wezley [sic] and the result of our time together scored compliments from friends [and others] and was possibly a factor in the acquisition of a [vastly improved] boyfriend later on.
So my hopes were high, maybe I'd grown out of the fear. Maybe I was exaggerating all this time. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all.
I entered the scene of the crime with a familiar weight in my belly. Then I caught my first glimpse of him. Bernard. A huge chunk of a man. As tall and wide as a house, bald as a coot, emitting a menacing plume of smoke.
But this Hell's Angel candidate was dressed in pink and singing Dione Warwick. Indeed, everywhere I looked were dramatic pictures of Diana Ross. His gruff voice had a soft edge to it, which turned poisonous and spiky at regular, malicious intervals with his equally bitchy co-workers.
Bernard spent all of 5 minutes with a pair of scissors and my mop, most of which was spent nattering with his friends, then I was passed on to the BITCH FROM HELL.
This COW spent an eternity drying my hair, hitting me in the face with everything she had...brushes, wires, body parts. She scorched my ears, scratched my face and pulled my hair out of my scalp and all I could do was sit still and try to find my Happy Place. I was petrified.
But there was more to come.
Imagine my ultimate horror as this BEAST sauntered up behind me with a monster pair of straighteners. NOT GHD...not even ceramic...and NO FUCKING IRON OIL.
But this annoyance turned to fear, which subsided into despair and back again. Heart pumping, body paralysed, brain racing with just one thought...'pleasedon'tburnmepleasedon'tburnmepleasedon'tburnme...'
A sharp, searing pain shot into my scalp and my body jolted. An apology may have been mumbled but I was too busy trying not to a)weep b)shout c)run away d)all of the above.
I left the shop sore, upset and ready to leave my next appointment for another five months.
I could've done better myself, with a strimmer and a head full of acid.
The last time I volunteered I was pleasantly surprised at how painless and, dare I say, enjoyable the experience was. Not 24 hours after the end of a 2+year relationship, I was pampered by a particularly agreeable fellow named Wezley [sic] and the result of our time together scored compliments from friends [and others] and was possibly a factor in the acquisition of a [vastly improved] boyfriend later on.
So my hopes were high, maybe I'd grown out of the fear. Maybe I was exaggerating all this time. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all.
I entered the scene of the crime with a familiar weight in my belly. Then I caught my first glimpse of him. Bernard. A huge chunk of a man. As tall and wide as a house, bald as a coot, emitting a menacing plume of smoke.
But this Hell's Angel candidate was dressed in pink and singing Dione Warwick. Indeed, everywhere I looked were dramatic pictures of Diana Ross. His gruff voice had a soft edge to it, which turned poisonous and spiky at regular, malicious intervals with his equally bitchy co-workers.
Bernard spent all of 5 minutes with a pair of scissors and my mop, most of which was spent nattering with his friends, then I was passed on to the BITCH FROM HELL.
This COW spent an eternity drying my hair, hitting me in the face with everything she had...brushes, wires, body parts. She scorched my ears, scratched my face and pulled my hair out of my scalp and all I could do was sit still and try to find my Happy Place. I was petrified.
But there was more to come.
Imagine my ultimate horror as this BEAST sauntered up behind me with a monster pair of straighteners. NOT GHD...not even ceramic...and NO FUCKING IRON OIL.
But this annoyance turned to fear, which subsided into despair and back again. Heart pumping, body paralysed, brain racing with just one thought...'pleasedon'tburnmepleasedon'tburnmepleasedon'tburnme...'
A sharp, searing pain shot into my scalp and my body jolted. An apology may have been mumbled but I was too busy trying not to a)weep b)shout c)run away d)all of the above.
I left the shop sore, upset and ready to leave my next appointment for another five months.
I could've done better myself, with a strimmer and a head full of acid.