Unbalanced, but smooth

I went to the beautician yesterday, for a facial. When I turned 30, I decided I deserved to be treated to such luxuries on a (relatively) regular basis, just for making it through 30 years on this earth. I come from a family where such frivolities are not the norm. I have vivid memories of my mother’s ‘Home Wax Kit’ jar of wax in a pot of boiling water on the stove, gently melting in anticipation of the home wax. It smelt nice. In my youth-tinted haze, of course, I never thought I’d need such things. Yes, haze.

Anyway, every time I go, I feel like I’m a Small Town Country Bumpkin pretending to be a City Slicker (Sex and the City-style). In fact, that’s exactly what I am. I’m like a little kid clattering around in her mother’s high heels (she did have one pair that my sister and I fought over, often landing up limping around with one each). I try to hide it though. It’s another world, the beautician’s, I’m telling you.

Firstly, there’s the music – it’s always that soothing pan-pipey stuff. I’m sure when those poor beauticians get out of there after a day’s working with it on repeat, they must put Nine Inch Nails on, very loudly! It’s nice for the hour of the facial, I guess. I was lying there thinking I may bring my own CD next time though, I wonder if that’s okay in beautician etiquette world…

Secondly, there’s the warmth – you lie on a bed with an electric blanket on, towels covering you, and the temperature is, I’d think, about body temperature. Very nice, because you have to strip down in order not to get all the lotions and potions on your clothes. It’s not unlike being in the womb, I’d imagine. And the pan pipe music, I’d think, goes with that idea too – a bit like listening to the intestinal sounds of your mother (again, I’m guessing).

Thirdly – the horrible bits – after the steaming, where they wax, pluck and squeeze. Ouch. I want to kick and punch at this point and need to keep reminding myself that I ASKED for this. Then I want to kick and punch myself for being an idiot to ask for this pain. They always follow it with the massaging bit which is lovely, and makes me want to kiss and hug the beautician, and take her home.

Fourthly – the lotions and potions – lovely smelling, slapped on, massaged in, wiped off, on repeat, about five of them (I’m too scared, in a country bumpkin way, to ask what they’re all for). Yesterday, though, there was a new one:

Beautician: Are you claustrophobic?

Shiny: No (visions of the already small, highly heated room’s walls closing in…) Um, why?

Beautician: We have a new ultra-hydrating (they like these kinds of words) mask

Shiny: Oh, ok (thinking I’m sure I need ultra-hydration, sounds important)

She slapped on the thickest gunk imaginable, over my eyes, over my mouth (I’m a chatter, I was silenced!) and then proceeded to massage my head while the mask dried. This would’ve silenced me anyway. Then she pulled it off and there I was, in opposite – a white mask of my face. Weird.

So now I’m ultra-hydrated, plucked and prodded, and feeling all grown-up and smooth-skinned. Only one thing – I wonder if anyone else is noticing that she plucked my left eyebrow shorter than my right? Aargh.

The pinnacle of my success

The Story In My Head:

I was at the pinnacle of my acting career, on a meteoric rise to stardom, in 1987, when I was offered my dream role. The lead in the 500-year celebration play of Bartholemew Diaz. Although I was a young girl, I was not only a limitlessly talented actress, but also had the presence of mind to know that playing a man would stretch my acting skills to the sinew, possibly earning me an Oscar (I, obviously, had a premonition of what would happen to Hillary Swank years later). And, it included a solo aria, something I knew I could do.

So I took it, and rehearsed and rehearsed, burning the midnight oil, perfecting my pitch, embracing the emotion of being a Portuguese explorer discovering Africa - the highs, the lows, the drama of scurvy. I read all the books to really 'get into' my part, spending days 'in character'. Until it was perfect.

Opening night arrived, and I meditated out of nerves, shutting myself in my dressing room to ready myself for the packed house I'd be playing to. My supporting cast and I took our places behind the velvet curtains, listening to the sounds of the people in the audience taking their places, feeling the thrill. The place was packed, the stalls filled with important people. The house-lights dimmed and the audience subsided into whispers, the anticipation palpable.

The curtains opened, the stage lights came up and I was Bartholomew Dias for an hour and a half. The audience were stunned into silence by my talent, my voice reducing many to tears. The play ended and the audience jumped from their seats, yelling with wild abandon, a standing ovation to beat any other. The stage filled with roses as I returned for my second encore and the press cameras flashed.

The Reality:

It was 1989, small-town South Africa, at my small town South African primary school. It was also the 500-year anniversary of Bartholomew Diaz's rounding our shores so what better story to use for the end-of-year play? But who to cast in the role of the man himself? No normal auditions for this school, nosiree. They just picked Shiny. Why? Because she has a nice little bob hairstyle, as all good explorers of the 1400's had. Oh, and she sings in the choir so she'll be okay to sing one verse of "Guide me, Oh thou Great Jehovah" on her own, before being joined by the chorus.

We practiced for at least two weeks before, on a Monday and Wednesday, during the half-hour period that should've been Health or RE (Religious Education - this was the '80's), I can't remember which.

The end of year concert night arrived and my mother fed us early dinner of fish fingers after blow-drying my bob into perfect 1400-explorer style. We all bundled into the car for the two minute drive to the school and I rushed off to Mr van Niekerk's class (our very sweet, vaguely alcoholic, Maths teacher who had a knack of recognising extraordinary children for their extraordinariness, something that was not common those days, in a conservative small town) which was closest to the school hall, and was thus the Dressing Room for the evening.

It was filled with twittering, over-excited 12-year olds like myself and we worked ourselves up into bursting excitable nervousness while Kerry's mom (the local beautician) 'did' our make-up (read: gave us mascara and some eye pencil and, in my case, a moustache drawn on with said eye pencil). And then we trooped off to the school hall which was packed to capacity with familiar faces.

It was filled with our families and friends, people we'd grown up with in this small town, people who knew our names and, many of whom knew our birthdays, shoe sizes and best friends. The seats were filled, the floor between the stage and seats was overflowing with the smaller kids, cross-legged, and chewing on rustling packets of Simba chips. A mad hum of chatting filled the hall.

The hall lights were switched off and there was sudden darkness, except for the stage lights and we began. Our 20-minute tale of a brave Portuguese sailor charting unknown waters, played by a pre-adolescent Shiny, singing her heart out for the first verse and then joining the choir.

I can't remember if there was actually a standing ovation (probably though, small towns are, well, very community-orientated and supportive) but there was definitely applause, and plenty of "Woohooo, Shiny" and "Woohoo, Peter" and "Woohoo, Gabi". You get the picture. Our families loved us.

And there really were press flashes. Two. We were in the next week's Herald, on page 3, all 25 of us on stage, bravely looking 1400-explorer-ish.

Delusions of grandeur, me? Never.