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Suffering for Beauty

Being too broke for pampering had its advantages.

After receiving my first paycheck from my new job I decided to treat myself to a day of pampering.

You know, enjoy some of the things I've had to give up on for the last few years due to lack of funds. Things like waxing (I started shaving), hair coloring (I did it at home), facials (okay, this I never did before—washing with soap really hard was always my method).

With my girl at her dad's and a day to myself I decided to just go for it—indulge in a day of relaxing beauty.

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I have two words—BEAUTY HURTS!

A day of pampering? It was a day of pure torture. The only thing that kept me going was knowing at the end of it, hopefully, I would look like Angelina Jolie. Okay, not exactly, but I did bring a picture of her for the haircut.

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Anyway, getting through this day was a true test of strength, courage, and tolerance for people who make a living inflicting pain.

I'll start with the facial. Now, to be fair, my skin regime is pretty pathetic so I did have quite a bit of damage that the poor Russian woman had to deal with. However, she could've prepared me a little. 

Sure, it started off all nice and friendly with the soft music and steam, quiet voices and soothing smells. 

But, damn, if that didn't all go out the window the minute she pulled that interrogation light over my face and started digging.

I tried really hard at first to stay still, maintain some grace and dignity. After all, she didn't need to know I was new at this. She didn't need to know that my idea of skin care was remembering to take my make-up off before bed.

But, c'mon, people!

When someone is squeezing the living crap out of your nose with brutal force, causing your eyes to not just tear up but run with water like a faucet, your toes to curl into a mangled position, your legs to bend and shoot in the air while your hands grip your thighs for dear life ... well, all I'll say is I nearly wet the bed and passed out from what I was sure was a full blown panic attack.

And it doesn't end with the nose. Hell no, she was just getting started, the evil witch. My chin, forehead, cheeks, even the hairline wasn't safe from her death pinch.

When she was finally done and slathered on that smooth cream I felt like a burn victim who finally had the fire patted out by some hero who swaddled me in their coat.

And I loved her again.

I sat up and looked in the mirror. I think I truly expected my face to look like it had been in a fight with Edward Scissorhands but instead it was just a little red and I'll be damned if this mama didn't look five years younger.

Not bad. Kinda like giving birth—as soon as the sweet child is in your arms you forget all about the agony you went through during labor.

I will spare you the details of the waxing because this is a PG column, but ... OWWWW.

I wobbled out of the waxer's room and went to the salon chair.

I had decided to get rid of some of the brassy highlights I had played with and simply go back to basics—the color I was born with. Deep, dark brunette.

Of course, the color I was born with now needed to get mixed in a bottle, but ...

She slathered the stuff on my hair, and told me to sit tight for a bit.

Again, I looked in the mirror to admire my super rosy face when suddenly I noticed the black dye slowly dripping down the side of my cheek. Great. It will probably leak into one of my fully cleansed pores and permanently create a black dot.

And then .... burning. Yes, burning. Hair dye BURNS. Itchy, burning, someone help!

I called for the hairdresser.

"What's wrong," she said.

"It's burning," I said.

"Oh, yeah. That happens sometimes. You should've told me. I could've mixed sugar in with the dye to help cut the burn."

And she walked away. Shoulda told her? This never happens at home with my nine-dollar hair dye.

Anyway, because I had to sit for so long the burning finally went away. Either that or I lost all feeling in my head.

But, after the washing, the drying, the cut and the yummy peppermints she gave me to suck on ... well, I did feel pretty damn good.

And the whole day of beauty only took six hours!

Sure, I may have had a few red, bloody spots on my face ("that will clear up by tomorrow"), a red rash between my legs ("that will also clear up tomorrow") and a really sore black scalp ("that will be fine in a few hours") but somehow, despite all that, I felt gorgeous.

Okay, not gorgeous, but very well kempt.

So, that was my day of pampering. And, lucky for me, I had a the entire next day without my daughter to spend in bed recovering.

When I picked up my girl from her dad's the first thing she said to me was,

"Mommy, are you wearing make-up?"

"No, baby, why?"

She moved in close and smiled,

"You look good. You should never wear make-up."

So ... I booked an appointment for three months from now for my next facial. 

C'mon, don't tell me if your kid noticed your skin looked better you wouldn't do the exact same thing.

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