I love the feeling of the warm sun on my face in the morning. I can feel the vitamin D filling my soul. This is in my top 5 favourite things to do. Lying in my bed. Feeling the sun on my face. I have no curtains in my room so I am woken by the sun on a sunny morning. Mmmmm. I roll over, and I remember I should probably be somewhere at some point today. What day is it? What have I got to do today? Is it sunday??? Friday??? Or shit? It’s Saturday….. Oh no I’ve gotta go to work. I must have been really bad in my last life. Really really bad. I open one eye and pick up my phone. My mind slowly stumbles through the possiimagebilities. Is it 9,7, 8??? No, it’s 7.53am. It’s Saturday. Precisely 1 hour and 7mins to get to that place where that thing called work is. Perfect timing to run around like a headless chicken in a vain attempt to get to work on time. So as to continue with the tradition of Saturday morning mayhem. I wonder round my flat in a controlled falling manner. I stagger into the shower, and proceed to shower sleeping. If you’ve ever wondered if it’s possible it is. I stumble out of the shower, no towel. Where’s a towel? I pull one off the floor, and hope it don’t smell too bad. That’ll do. I sift through the chest of drawers of once ordered and neatly folded clothes which has quickly become a chaotic bundle of everything I own yet totally unwearable. So a black vest and not ever ironed trousers it is. I must be the most unkempt beauty therapist on the planet. Must be? I am.

I fly out of the door. Nope. Wheres my oyster? A girl’s necessities have progressed from keys, money, fags to keys, money, iPhone, oyster, watch, tweezers. There probably should be more stuff but I just don’t have the time. Where did I put my keys, oh fuck, fuck my life, fuck this shit, oh my under the cushion of course.

Will I ever get out of this house????? It’s like an assault course and mental agility test all rolled into one. 8.14am. Just get out of the here! I slam the door and make sure it’s closed for an OCD moment. Fuck it, rob my house. Shit the bus, I run for my life, as if for gold, as if(!)… That was my exercise for the day. I can’t fucking breath. How did I get the chest of an old emphysemic man????

Fuck fuck fuck this shiiiit…..


Waiting, part deux.


There are no clients again. The boredom sets in, and my body begins to sink. All the cleaning has been done. Overwhelmed by sighing. At the edge of boredom is a sweet craving, the little sugar rush aids the entertainment and silliness that lives alongside the quiet moments, and lifts the sinking feeling. The waiting can be fun.It’s in these lulls you begin to talk nonsense, forced into a place where you must entertain oneself, especially after a sugar hit. BTs are perceived to be young & dumb, which, like many generalisations, is wrong. I’ve met plenty of fun & funny, smart, young n old fat and skinny blonde, brown, redheads, lovers of false eyelashes and layers of makeup, to the natural, I been working 7 10 hour days and not fucked to put any makeup on, beauties. We can share our grim tales of dodgy customer experience. Laugh at the lunatics that come in, and their demands. And, on a night out bt’s are wild. I don’t know if it’s bowing down to every customer need on a daily basis, being quiet for long periods of time, or sometimes not talking at all. But rarely have I seen a quiet BT on a night out. In fact, most of my colleagues I’ve worked with over years gone by, are wildly funny, yes girls, yes wildly funny. Missing funny banters & mucking about with the girls. Here it’s just me, myself and I, sitting waiting hoping sitting waiting.

One hour to go,  shoot me now. I pop into the barbers to say hi, they’re always up for nonsensical chats and some inane amusing banter there. Heartfelt murmurs are coming from the tiny, cluttered staffroom kitchen. The young barber can be heard singing his heart out to bohemian rhapsody. I pop my head in the staff room, Galileo Galileo Galileo! We all join in. There is nothing like a sing-a-long. Everyones a Queen fan, when they pop up randomly on the radio, and we all know the words how??? Predictably, we all headbang like the characters from Wayne’s World; this never ceases to be amusing. Then to mix it up, us three skinny white kids start to boogie down to a bit of rap as magic FM is flipped to kiss. White dudes effectively rapping-along make’s me smile.

I wonder if the barbershop quartet originates from moments of boredom and waiting for custom.