The Wirey One


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This particular client I remember had shoulder length dark thick hair, dressed like a school teacher, pleated knee length skirt, opaque black tights, sensible shoes and a white blouse. She was quite articulate and generally smart. Our conversations always held some substance and I always highly regarded her opinions, that is until the wirey one.

Her usual treatments involved basic bikini and underarms. This was her third appointment. I had just completed her bikini laser and we were speaking about her brothers engagement, when I decided to shift to her underarm treatment. She was quite excitedly describing their plans for the celebrations and I was nodding away and getting caught up in the excitement. I shouldn’t have. As we were so deep in conversation, my stupid automatic primal grooming instinct kicked in and I grabbed a 4 inch long wirey hair that was on her chest, as you casually do to a friend with a rogue hair on her sweater. To my horror ..I felt a bit of resistance at the other end of the hair that was subsequently followed by a small yelp from my client. I froze.

She took off her green laser goggles and looked me dead in the eye with contempt and said “You didn’t!” I had. I had pulled out an obviously very beloved and extremely long nipple hair. “I’m very sorry” I replied which clearly was not satisfactory. “Why on earth did you do that?” She continued… really? you would continue? I would be too embarrassed! Anyone would be embarrassed, surely this sensible, articulate and affluent lady with whom I have had worthy conversations with would be embarrassed. “I honestly did not realise, I apologise” I replied again, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that in my entire career I had yet to come by such a wirey and lengthy nipple hair.

The wirey one certainly changed everything, as of then our sessions were mostly held in an awkward silence, which led me to wonder what this nipple hair had meant to her. I mean it clearly would have taken a while to grow to that length, but what was it about this nipple hair that she felt so attached to? I guess I will never know, but I’ll tell you this, it was enough to slap that auto Primal Groomer out of me!


Mothers Guilt


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Mother’s Guilt is, in my opinion, natures way of protecting the offspring by mentally torturing the mother. The first time I experienced Mothers Guilt, my daughter had yet to be born! I remember it so clearly, I had not felt such a strong overbearing sense of guilt before in my life.. personified only as a nagging, abrasive and at times intimidating¬† little critter gnawing away violently at the part of my brain that controls my sanity.¬† It had something to do with the fact that I, along side nature, was solely responsible for this little childs’ well-being.

So, what did I do to feel such an immense sense of guilt? I skipped lunch..Oh the neglect! Looking back in hindsight I can only laugh, but when you are living it, it is far from funny. I must admit, mothers guilt tends to get worse as time passes. The reality of a mothers responsibility starts to sink in long after the pain of labour has left you. As each day passes, you realise more and more how much of an influence you will have in this beings life. Guilt was not the only overbearing emotion I experienced in my early days as a mother. Inadequacy, was a feeling that I was not really familiar with hence why I felt it’s force at full throttle. I had never felt so inadequate nor so incapable in my entire life. Here I was, given a beautiful gift, the gift of birthing a child, yet I felt unworthy of it. Why? What if I stuff this up?! If I fail.. this is the only exam I cannot resit. This is someones life.

This is where I was when I realised that these heightened senses of emotion (mostly hormone driven) can easily spiral out of control and into Postpartum Depression. So, I took one hard look at myself (well my ballooned self since I had gained around 20kg) in the mirror, grabbed my reflection…slapped her around a little bit and brought her to the realisation that no matter how I feel, I am this childs mother. I can be her depressed mother or I can be her proactive mother. I chose proactive. Needless to say, I still have mothers guilt only I now realise I feel it because I am a mother not because I am an inadequate mother.

The Moment


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Let me begin by reminding you that I grew up in a stable household. My father a university lecturer and my mother a hairdresser. In my life I’ve always been proud of my parents achievements, proud that no one could utter a bad word about them, had their been some bad words it was always uttered in jealousy.

So it is no wonder that when the moment came, it felt as I was on the receiving end of a circus canon ball trick. The moment when my mother set me aside in my old bedroom and sat me on my old bed. As I sat down, I felt an influx of childhood memories come over me, every corner of the room brought back something warm and fuzzy; I was on an emotional high. Only to be brought back down to earth at the speed of light as I heard my mum utter “I want to move out.” I felt my body hit the concrete at full force. She then continued to tell me about how horrible her entire marital life had been, mostly trivial and material things. I couldn’t understand it, yet she delivered the whole thing so well that I was in tears, even though I knew that the essence of what she was saying had no substance or conviction. I found myself comforting her and promising her my support.

My mum walks out. My dad walks in. “Can I talk to you?” he asks. Really? Haven’t I already had the wildest emotional ride of my life? He walks in and sits next to me on my bed. I remembered the last time we were sitting on my bed like this. Me on my bed crying, dad on my bed crying, it was when we had just heard news of my mums breast cancer 4 years ago.

“Did your brother speak to you?” he asked. What my mother didn’t know was that my brother and I knew of this long before she sat me down on my bed. It had all begun with mysterious midnight telephone calls, text messages, outings and her disappearing from work hours at a time without a trace.. and also her recent significant weight loss. Not only had her appearance changed, her personality had turned a whole 180 degrees. She had changed from the wise, warm and kind mother who was always supportive to a judgmental, unreliable, self indulgent, over confident 16 year old. I was embarrassed at how she sometimes acted in public.

My brother had spoken to me about the telephone number that all this was regarding. It was strange to my brother and I that the telephone number would not answer at all, no matter what time you called or where you called from…Until he tried to call from my mums mobile. That’s when he heard that dreaded familiar “Hello?” at the other end of this anonymous telephone number.

I honestly did not endeavor that my parents’ marital problems would have such an immense effect on me. I’m married for gods sake, with kids to boot! Why is this hurting so much?

The Moaner


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So there I was.. this is about 3 years ago I might add, standing in a very well lit room, gloves on, holding a clipboard with the clients’ filled-in Laser Hair Removal consent forms. I’m reading through crosschecking all of her (Mrs Moaner) information. Medications: check, skin type: check, mental health: check…”will this hurt my c*nt?” ..allergies: check. WAIT.. what? Yes, I had heard right. She just asked me, in a very thick Russian accent I might add, “Will this hurt my c*nt.” Ok, so I hadn’t got to the section where she outlined the area she wanted to treat but its clear as day now!”It’s not as bad as waxing” I replied.

So I proceeded to start the laser machine and she lies down, I realised that she had completely disregarded the disposable g-string that I had so thoughtfully placed on the towel for her. I gear up.. goggles and conductive gel go on and she hisses.. I mean those hisses where you take in a deep breath through your teeth… and ZAP.. “ooooah” she moans. It was hard for me to decipher whether it was out of pain or pleasure.. ZAP .. “OH” she moans again.. ZAP.. “OOOOHH” she moans some more.. ZAP.. “Ohh.. my c*nt”..¬† WHAT? the shock of what I had heard had temporarily frozen me… then I realised I had frozen looking down at her nether regions (just a tad awkward), so I continued and now it was very clear that it was pleasure fueling her vocal expressions.

With every zap that surpassed she moaned, groaned, grabbed her thighs and arched her back.. pleasurably and crudely citing every body part that my laser machines came into contact with.

The session was over, she had sweated quite a fair bit so I handed her a towel and left the room. That lady had just made a beast with two backs with my laser machine! I too was a victim, not to downplay the torment the machine went through, but I felt like I was being used against my will for her pleasurable gain. Here I was faced with a few moral dilemmas, firstly did what just happened constitute as cheating on my husband?! I mean, this is what some escorts and prostitutes do isn’t it? The difference being that they willingly and knowingly do it. Secondly, how the hell do I not tell anyone about this?!?! My goss-o-meter had hit it’s max and sadly morals are the party-poopers of the gossip world.

So what did I do? I rebooked her under my colleagues name, and when her time came I was waiting in the corridor. She walks out.. red cheeked.. flustered.. she looks at me.. I nodded with a slight smirk on my face..she nodded back. And that was it. We never spoke of it.

Who am I?

Well, that I can’t tell you exactly. If I do reveal who I am then I guess it would defeat the purpose of this blog. What is the purpose I hear you say? In my life as a beautician and hairdresser as well as being a mother, a wife, a daughter and a sister I see, hear and experience so much that I do at times feel as though I go through sensory overload.This I guess you can say is my therapeutic bi*ch vent.

You see, the problem I guess also lies within the fact that I own the chain of salons that I operate in. This means that I’m in the public eye often, not a celebrity by any means as I don’t have the luxuries that come with being a celebrity BUT I get the inconvenience of having to mind my Ps & Qs at all times. Also, the industry that I operate within can be called a bi*chfest. I employ about 30 females & gay men (whom tend to be more bi*chy than females at times) between the ages of raging hormone driven 16 year olds to raging hormone AND ego driven 30 year olds. I will confess though, I too have been bitten, quite hard I must add, by the bi*ch bug! I spend endless hours in beauty rooms listening to .. and at times conversing with woman and men of all walks of life. I am bound by client confidentiality, my lips forcefully sealed from revealing what at times seems like Hollywood gold.

I will tell you this about myself. I’m twenty something years old, I have two toddler girls, Roxana and Ariana (I’ve changes their names to what I would have named them sans husbands input). I’m married to a Latino, I married outside my faith and ethnicity. I’ve been married for 4 years.

I was raised in a household with my younger brother and MUCH younger sister. My father is a scholar and my mother a hairdresser and beautician. I spent most of my childhood in England.

So there you have it.. something about me. I will ask you to trust me when I say I am living the life that will entail in my blogs.. no matter how surreal or dramatic it may seem at times. I will also reassure you that I will only change identities to protect those around me but not to the extent where the material and story at hand is altered.