Beth, my glorious hair cut person wot is very compassionate with my feral locks, has me on a strict hair cutting regime. Every 10-12 weeks I trot in for my Surprise Appointment in which I apologize for being late and then proceed to tell her about the previous three months of my life like a Days of Our Lives serial (and I say Surprise Appointment because I never note the next appointment down. Every text reminder’s a little shock that past me could be so organized).
This hair appointment regime exists because when it doesn’t, I quickly begin to look like I’m part of some religious cult wot doesn’t cut their hair. All I would need would be a little scarf to make people wonder if I was one of many wives and perhaps also to stop wearing mascara.
Anyway, this is quite a long introduction for a story that has nothing to do with haircuts, but it provides you with the context of why I was in town. Said hair cut had been finished and while the smart thing to do would have been to go straight home, the week before had been so awful, I decided some mooching and pootling was in order.
Let it be known that it’s been many, many years since I’ve been to one of those walk in massage places (no, not *those* places) but on this particular occasion I pootled right inside.
I have no idea what I was doing, and the math was not mathing on those prices, but because my guard was down and the lady behind the desk was quite persuasive, I nek minit found myself on the massage table staring at the ground.
In my mind, I had envisaged something relaxing. A time where for twenty odd minutes, I could check out and let the busy world go by. Recharge, if you will.
It seems I was mistaken.
It all started well. I pride myself on being slight of frame but with a density of muscle that can handle a surprising amount of force.
PRESSURE OK?? She breathed breathily into my ear.
‘Yes,’ I replied, thinking how she would be impressed at what I handled.
I’m not sure if she got enthusiastic, possessed by what she perceived to be a muscle knot, or if she lures all her unsuspectings in this way, but it appears that after some brief slaps around with oil, the jet engines started revving on the tarmac.
The space between my neck and my mid-section became her runway and her elbows took the stage.
Released with the force of a thousand buffalo, she pierced those pointers down the pot-holed express lane of my rib attachments.
I immediately knew what she was up to: I had chosen the type whose massage mission is to break you. I needed to sub-consciously send her the message that I was game.
‘PRESSURE OK??’ She jeered again. I gave her a weak thumbs up as there was no breath left in my body to reply.
For the next 15 minutes, it seemed as though she left my back and pressed her persistent little thumbs directly into the nerve centres of my brain. I activated all the techniques I would rely on if I was ever kidnapped and interrogated or enlisted for the army.
I stared at a dot on the floor.
I forcefully wrinkled my nose and did strange things with my lips.
I thought about how I could write about this afterwards but instead of calling it ‘Small Happinesses’ it would be the beginning of a new series called ‘Tiny Tragedies’.
I squinted my eyes in case limiting my vision would be helpful.
She wrapped up with a move I’ll never understand where they thump your back with their fists, and make the sound of an armpit fart, as though this is something we all really want to pay for.
Fortunately, I had the final word:
In a closing, passive aggressive parting, I lingered in the room for slightly longer than necessary getting changed, leaving her with more time to consider her life and actions.
That parting shot is my Happiness today. That, and the fact the massage ended as quickly as it started.