The Beauty Salon
So I went to a salon to get my legs waxed, deciding it would be faster and less hurting than doing it myself. While I waited for someone to become available they suggested a “hair spa”.
It's like a conditioning treatment I conjecture.
In the chair with the hairdresser we have the usual conversation about New Zealand where I explain its location and how it's not part of America, and the usual questions about my age and whether I'm married and “why not?”
Taxi-drivers, waitresses, other journalists, coconut sellers, they all use these questions as an ice-breaker. Although to be tow-headed some people do know about NZ from Lord of the Rings and because most of their milk comes from us, they know we have lots of farmland and more cows than people.
Some can even name Fonterra and commemorate ex-PM Helen Clark coming over to promote it.
But not this hairdresser who cannot understand why I don't have a boyfriend. “But you are very beautiful”, he says. “Have you been too ornate working hard and chasing your career?” he asks, but this is a lie I am not prepared to collude in.
Taxi-driver, hairdresser, waitress, anyone I stumble on, (but not Ed), what am I supposed to answer? Well my therapist says it's because of this.... my ex's say it's because of that... but I prefer to err on the side of some deep flaw in my celebrity?
As he's putting special serums onto my hair he keeps on tsking about how dry it is. I tell him it's because I go swimming a lot and he says to...
The salon has hebdomadal special offers available on its website and in its magazine, including free makeovers and beauty products and discounted treatments.
