I invested a bit of money in myself this week. After living a close to monastic existence here in my tiny cottage for the past two months, I decided it was time to do a bit of sprucing up for my baby cousins nuptials tomorrow, lest I frighten the wedding revelers with my recent unkempt state.
Spending time at my hair salon is one of my favorite indulgences; what's not to love about being fussed over by an army of hip, young stylists + catching up on gossip with my impossibly chic French hairdresser, Jiji? Um...nothing!, which is why I savor every fluffy, and frivolous second I'm there. What sweet relief to talk about scrunchies vs. barrettes, celebrity train wrecks, and growing out bangs, rather than politics and the economy for a change. One fun hour later, my roots no longer divulging my natural color (or age) I was off to the spa to get my skin thoroughly cleaned. Now, you'd think that by forty-four years old, I'd have skin cleaning 101 nailed, but truth be told, I was beginning to feel like there was not one clear pore left on my entire face. So, for the next hour, I did my best to relax in a dimly lit room, while a spa technician steamed, scrubbed, and squeezed an entire summer's worth of gunk from my skin; I swear I lost two pounds from my face yesterday.
And finally, there was the bikini wax. Somehow--after spending all of my adult life perfectly happy going...errr, ummm...au natural--I got
But by some miracle I survived my second bikini wax, and when I arrived home, I poured myself a very large glass of red wine as a reward. Then, realizing the wedding was only two days away, I poured out the wine, brushed my teeth, broke out the Crest White Strips, and worked on getting my teeth back to a shade that could be called white.
Beauty I was reminded, is utterly exhausting; I can't wait to get back to work.