Training is done, lady bits a a thing of the past, I am now a professional waxer of balls.
There are lots of pros to being a Beauty Therapist; which I am now gonna refer to as a BT! If you don’t mind the abbreviation, it’s quicker, beauty therapist is a mouthful,and sometimes, I find the word disconcerting as a former colleague once pointed out, it also spells the rapist. Which with some very prudish, and extremely shy older women, as they climb on the couch with their trousers on for a bikini line wax. I have to state the obvious. “It’s quite hard to do a bikini line wax through your trousers madam.” To which they awkwardly lower their trousers half way down their thighs. Mm still pretty tricky I think to myself, and smile. At this point I can feel like the rapist, trying to go somewhere you ought not to. But generally we are quite far removed from being the rapist. Never the less, BT it is.
The pros to being a BT, are no work to take home, meet loads of different peops, find out the gory goss, & best of all, once in your treatment room, you’re the boss, controlling the airtime. Which I take full advantage of, if I’m honest, and it becomes an audience with Tamar. The poor unsuspecting clients have to listen to me ramblings. I really make the most of my captive audience, to practice my comedic abilities, discuss theories and mostly nose into strangers private life’s. To me, this is most fascinating. I never tire of finding out about people and how they’re life is rolling out.
There are also cons. If there are no clients, there is no work. This part is excruciating. There are few agonies close to being at work, but having no work to do.
I have an empty column today. No customers yet. The waiting, what to do when waiting? To fill this time I clean the tiny room within an inch of it’s life. I faff as no one else can faff. I am pretty good at killing time, but even I, 3 hours in, am completely done. Lunch time, ah lunch time, food, breaks so many moments of monotony. Time to take a stroll.
I pass the barbers, and glance in. Give Dan, the head barber a nod of hello. He acknowledges me with raised eyebrows, and goes back to being mesmerised by his phone, hunched over, engrossed by temple run, candy crush, utube, whatever…. oh facebook everyones on facebook. On my train journey to work I often have a cheeky look over a guy on the train’s shoulder, yep facebook! Crazy. Lots of people moan about Facebook, but it’s astounding how often I nose at what the person traveling next to me is looking at on their phone, the amount people scrolling through their news feed is astounding, well I find it astounding, others may find me, just plain nosey. I am always the annoying passenger leaning to read me neighbours paper. It is a social no ,no, but my ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, coupled with a curiosity that killed the cat, I commit social faux pars continually.
Luke, the young 17/18 year old barber just outta college, is lounging in the barber’s chair, face in hands, staring into the mirror, deeply & intently looking. A few sweeps of the hair to perfect his quiff, cute. The young make boredom look cool, bearable, desirable, wearable. Bitter & twisted old fools, like myself look exhausted, angry, bitter, drained, beaten. Not good. I grab a macdonlds in the hoping of getting Mayfair and park lane. A cool £50000 would be sweet right now, I could pay of me credit cards an get out of here for a month or so. Ah so that killed an hour.
I want to hide away when there’s nothing to do. I fear people seeing me in this defeated state. Bent over, lacking in purpose. Having nothing to do is not becoming at all. Please someone save me from this dole drum. Give me sumink to do. For now, I will lie and daydream, where the work should be, on the waxing couch.