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My birthday is almost here, and I’m faced with the cold hard reality of middle age. This year, I’m requesting presents like massages, facials, haircuts, and even that new book on colon care. You know, inner beauty and all.
I’m fortunate enough to have a husband who likes to make me happy. He has obliged to buying me gift cards for extensive spa treatments and any books on self-improvement that I require. I’m sure it’s not a totally selfless act on his part, as he knows that if I’m happy, then so will be his lot. Or maybe I’m starting to look old and worn, and it makes him feel better to look at a polished, refined wife as opposed to a Shar-pei.
I do think he finds humor in the whole affair, as the last time he dropped me off at the spa, he told Raul, my massage therapist, “Put her up on the lift, and give her an overhaul.” Man humor, I guess. Raul laughed, but then again, Raul doesn’t speak any English, so he finds everything anyone says either funny or brilliant depending on their facial expressions.
Raul may just be the perfect man, and he’s always just a gift card away from telling me my body is as tight and perky as Paris Hilton’s. Of course, I can’t be sure of what he’s saying, but that’s my interpretation.
As marvelous as these spa gifts are, and as much as I like being kneaded, exfoliated, and highlighted, I’m never pleased with the results because I’m still left with the same old me. Apparently I’ve always been hard to shop for, and some people might even say I’m picky. (Although behind my back, I’m sure they call me something else.)
In the last few years, I’ve gone through more massage therapists than the NY Giants and Hugh Hefner combined. Before Raul, I had Hilda. She was wonderful, but she had one of those rambling eyes that pointed due east. I was never sure if she was looking at me or the chair on the other side of the room. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did.
Then there was Donna. She had a lot of personal problems and somehow thought I would be interested in hearing all about them. I figured it was my hour, and I wasn’t about to be her naked Dr. Phil.
Again, maybe I am picky and hard to please.
I haven’t seen the same esthetician twice for my facials because none of them can satisfy me. I fear I’m running out of new ones to go to. They all promise the same things: tight, glowing skin, small pores, and no under-eye bags. Yet, every time I leave, I still have sagging, sallow skin and bags that would make a Basset Hound look more enthusiastic than me.
I’ve gone through quite a few hair stylists as well. However, I’m not the one leaving them. They somehow move to new locations without notifying me. Being a retired stylist myself, I can understand why they may not like servicing me. I know it all. I’ve been on the other side of the chair, and I know how I want my hair done. Quite frankly, I make them nervous.
I believe I may be on a list. All beauty professionals have them. They’re like a bad check list, only more personal, and instead of taping your check to the wall, they tape a picture of you in their back room to use for moustache and mole drawing practice. I know this, because when I owned my salon, my employees and I won first place in the Annual Hairstylists’ Moustache and Mole Drawing Competition.
I fear that now I may be the practice poster child for the greater North East.
Stacy, the last youngster I saw (I call her youngster because she is 12) asked me what I wanted and then proceeded in a futile attempt to make me look like a middle-aged her. I realize there are some stylists who get stuck on one haircut and use it for all their clients, whether they are six or sixty-six.
I am not six. I am not sixty-six. I am mad at Stacy for not staying home to play with her pick up sticks. (For any of you who don’t know what pick up sticks are, please call Stacy for a hair appointment, as you and her are in the same age bracket and will get along just fine.)
Okay, I know I need to be more patient with the fact that these professionals can only do what they’ve been taught. And apparently the schools of aesthetics do not teach things like wizardly massage, feats of facial illusion, or haircuts of the supernatural.
Let’s face it; I’m touchy and impatient because these “professionals” can’t give me back my pain-free body, my youthful glow, and my flowing long hair.
No, maintenance isn’t always as easy as getting a gift card. Who am I kidding? I’m not looking for maintenance; I’m looking for the age of 27. And my husband, God love him, tries so hard to make me happy with all the wonderful spa trips he’s given me, only to hear me complain about the results.
Next year for my birthday, I’ll make it easy on him and just ask for a time machine.
