Spa Life

I have a moustache.

Not ‘peach fuzz’, as the make-up artists at Channel 10 kindly referred to it.

A full-blown Uncle Chop Chop that sits atop my lip like a small rodent.

That’s what it feels like.

Hubby keeps calling me ‘the walrus’ prompting the kids to sing ‘koo-koo-ka-choo’ even though they think the Fab Four are actually the Wiggles.

Why doesn’t anyone tell you that, as soon as you hit 40, hair starts sprouting from the most unusual places?

So, I decided to visit a Day Spa.

Now – I’m not much of a high-maintenance chick.

I could count on one hand the number of facials or manicures I’ve had.

Frankly, I’d rather spend the time reading a good book.

But it’s a bit scary for the kids to see mum as the Bearded Lady.

“Why don’t we make a day of it!” enthuses a girlfriend.

And that’s how we end up, naked, in a dressing room together.

It’s kinda distracting having an intelligent discussion while a little voice in your head keeps saying “look at her eyes, don’t look down, she’ll think you’re weird, look at her eyes!!!”

Not that I necessarily want to look at my friend’s breasts.

But it’s hard not to when they’re right in front of you.

Anyway, once our bathrobes are wrapped around our wobbly bits, we’re led into separate torture chambers – I mean, sumptuous spa suites.

A beauty salon is basically a velvet glove concealing an iron fist.

Aside from childbirth, is there anything more painful than a full Brazilian? Or a lip wax?

Someone pours hot wax on your delicate skin then yanks out the hairs by their roots.

To make matters worse, that someone is usually a Miss Universe contestant who tells you that your skin is a “little dehydrated” and you have some “fine lines” around your eyes.

“Well you try running around after two small children and working full-time!” I feel like screaming.

Instead, I smile insipidly and mumble something about not drinking enough water.

The next phase involves the aforementioned goddess smearing a concoction of chemicals on my face while whoever is this year’s version of Enya sings hauntingly in the background.

The music is punctuated by an unhappy customer outside the plywood door, demanding her Caviar Facial “NOW OR I WILL CALL HOTEL MANAGEMENT!!!”

Ah, the serenity.

I finally relax enough to enjoy the facial until I remember that commercial skin care products are full of petrochemicals.

Then I can’t get the image of the Exxon Valdez out of my mind.

Afterwards, we stumble into each other in the corridor, visions of post-coital bliss – hair askew with dreamy looks plastered across our faces.

And a red raw stain above my lip.

I no longer have a moustache.

I can’t go into the details of that part of the treatment because it’s too upsetting to recount.

Suffice to say, I’d rather run away and join the circus than submit to this cruel and unusual torture again.

Long live the mo.