I got my hair coloured yesterday afternoon. As I lay back having my hair washed afterwards, the handsome young assistant gave me a luxurious, slow, sensuous head massage.
And you know what I thought, as my nails bit into the leatherette of the chair and my teeth clenched … JUST FARKING HURRY UP!
I didn’t say it because I thought it would be rude. He was trying so hard to make a good impression.
But it was a total waste of time. If my hairdresser had been there he would have stopped him. He’s used to my quirks after almost 20 years. He KNOWS how much I hate a fuss. Can’t even bear a blow-dry afterwards, happy to leave sopping wet.
Head massages are wasted on me. They make my skin crawl. I hate being pampered. All I can think about is how much time I’m wasting when I could be doing more important things like picking up potatoes for dinner.
Don’t even get me started on facials. Facials are my idea of HELL ON EARTH.
Needless to say meditation and I don’t mix.
I may look incredibly calm on the surface, but underneath I’m a seething mass of ideas and panic. Making me sit still for any length of time is sheer torture.
Same goes for deserted tropical islands … cue heart palpitations at the mere thought. Lying on a banana lounge all day doing nothing … good god noooooooo!
Hawaii is more my speed – I can stroll on the beach, have a quick dip, then pop to the shops. Much more fulfilling.
Mind you, I can be lulled. As a kid I became totally transfixed by test cricket. I was IN THE ZONE. Could sit in my grandparents Jason recliner for days, transfixed.
And the rockpools at Merewether chill me out.
But massages … get your hands off me!