Pamper me, please. I'll pay you.

I met Momma at Le Bliss tonight for facials and haircuts and it was awesome.

Sarah cut my hair, and she was funny and talkative - in that "they told me to avoid awkward silences" sort of way.  She was genuine, though, so it was easy to follow her lead and play along.  What in the hell are you supposed to talk about when you're getting your hair cut, anyhow?  It's always so weird to me to try to have a conversation with a person I've never met before - with whom I've entrusted a major feature and all I can think is "please don't mess up".  I'm so freakin' bad at small talk.  I'm more of a "Let's get this done!" sort of gal.  I guess the problem could be solved by going to a stylist more than once, and then more than once every two years - get to see the person semi-regularly, develop a relationship - that probably makes it easier to come up with topics of discussion that aren't too personal or too deep or too political.  I don't know - I imagine other women have solved this problem long before the age of 30; perhaps I'm a slow developer.  I don't think I'll ever be an every-six-weeks sort of gal, but I can aim for every three months, maybe.  I'll try it this year and see how it goes.

Toward the end of my haircut, the power went out.  Sarah had a swath of hair pulled away from the back of my head, held between the fingers of one hand while the other moved in with the open shears.  When the lights suddenly blinked out, we all froze - the human version of that old "deer in headlights" adage - and I could only think one thing, so I said it out loud:

"Don't.  Cut."

The salon burst out in laughter.  Ever notice how your voice is louder when everything else is silent?  No?  Just me huh?  Awesome.

The electricity was back within minutes - a blown breaker or something - and Sarah finished my cut and style without incident or bloodshed.  I liked her a lot, and when I go back, I'll book my appointment with her.

Then it was time for the facial!  YAY!  I want my world to smell like the facial room.  Eucalyptus and spearmint and lemon and awesome.  And I need a hot towel machine.  And a heated bed.  And someone to rub my shoulders and temples and throat like that.

Okay, but as awesome as the facial was, my crazy, of course, had to crop up.  During the exfoliation, she used these little brushes - I didn't see them, but I figured out what they were after a few seconds - to rub the cream off my face, and I rationally understand that the point was to remove dead skin cells.  But it felt like she was trying to brush the little hairs on my face.  And I imagined myself a dog or cat, lying there on the table, being brushed.  And I had to fight SO HARD not to laugh out loud.  And then I pictured this slim young woman looking at my fat 30 year old face and two chins and fat arms, brushing my face hair, and it was easy not to LOL.  And then I started thinking about all the dozens (hundreds?) of other women who'd had their face hairs brushed with the face brushes, and suddenly I KNEW I was covered in dead face skin cells from all those other women and suddenly I was totally skeeved out and itching and had to take a deep breath and talk myself out of jumping off the table and demanding a warm towel to wipe all the other people off of me.  But then the brushing was over and (Rationally) I understand that she saw a little spot of cream left on my cheek and was removing it with her dry finger - in my head, though, she had licked her finger and was trying to smooth a face hair cowlick.  And then it was hard not to laugh again.  This shit was supposed to be relaxing, dammit!!!

Then came the eye and lip cream (which I imagined to be blood red - in my head she was giving me a clown face) and the painting-on of the mask.  I like things to be put on my face with a paintbrush.  But then I saw myself with blue or purple or tie-dye colors to accent the blood red lips and eyes, and I waited for the click of the camera that would lead to "Look what I did at work today" pictures on Facebook.  And then there was steam and an awesome sigh-inducing shoulder massage that made me not care, and then it was time for another hot towel.  Too soon, my face was being wiped off and she was unpinning the towel from around my hair.

"I need more hot towel time, please" I croaked.  "And an hour or so to nap."

They think I'm a real riot up in there.

Abbey did my facial and she was wonderful and professional and made me feel relaxed and at ease when I wasn't being crazy.  It's not her fault I'm crazy.

I met Momma back in the lobby, paid our bill, and we walked over to the Ice Cream and Pie Kitchen.  We decided against dinner - Momma was tired - but she bought us each a cupcake and then we hugged and kissed and parted ways.

Next time, we're getting massages.  Momma's treat.

Consider this my mental note to not wait two years before I treat myself again.  I waste ridiculous amounts of money eating out and buying things I don't need - I need to make myself, my physical self, a priority more often.  There's no drug that could make me feel as relaxed and at peace as I feel when I raise up from that table after a relatively short stretch of pampering.  And the ego boost that comes from a new haircut?  We all need to feel pretty every now and then.

So here's what I'm going to do.  I'm going to try, at least three times this year, to get my hair cut, my face pampered, and my back massaged.  I deserve it.  I'm worth it.

And I'll forget about all of this in 6 weeks.  :)