"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?" When my mirror giggled, I made an appointment for a makeover at the "New You", a very chic beauty salon.
Did I want a manicure or a massage? How about a new hair style? I wanted the works. In by nine, out by five - just like my dry cleaning.
As soon as I walked through the salon's gold door, I was greeted by a Miss-Universe-type, who handed me a shapeless, chartreuse smock and paper slippers. Neither contributed to the new me I'd envisioned. If my mirror had seen me, it wouldn't have giggled. It would have cracked up.
Hoping a manicure and pedicure would help, I shuffled off to the first makeover maven, Miss Marie. The only words Miss Marie could say in English were tut, tut, tut; and the more she worked on my nails, the more she said them.
Next was Eve, a short, stocky masseuse, who had hands that should have been registered with the FBI. By the time she was through kneading my flesh, I thought I had terminal cellulite.
Then I dragged my bread-dough body to the facial room. Who knew the fixings for a facial were all in my frig? Who knew guacamole was a moisturizer?
Then came Miss Tina, the makeover, makeup artist, who had a radiantly natural look. If she could be half as good with my makeup as she was with hers, my mirror would have to admit I looked like a glass act. Unfortunately, Miss Tina's radiantly natural look was natural. Although a framed certificate on the wall said she was a licensed cosmetician, she wasn't a miracle worker. After thirty minutes my left jawbone might have resembled Catherine Zeta-Jones', but nothing else did.
Last, but not least, was a hairstyling by the New You Guru. Mr. Philippe's tattoos didn't bother me. Okay, the snake around his wrist was a little creepy. What did bother me were the pictures on the walls - women with multi-colored hair, women with spiked hair - women with hair cut in geometric patterns. When Mr. Philippe asked, "What are we doing today?" I nervously replied, "Cutting my hair long".
I didn't look much different after my New You makeover, but I felt different. I felt two hundred thirty dollars poorer. The next time my mirror giggles, I might risk having seven years of bad luck.
Did I want a manicure or a massage? How about a new hair style? I wanted the works. In by nine, out by five - just like my dry cleaning.
As soon as I walked through the salon's gold door, I was greeted by a Miss-Universe-type, who handed me a shapeless, chartreuse smock and paper slippers. Neither contributed to the new me I'd envisioned. If my mirror had seen me, it wouldn't have giggled. It would have cracked up.
Hoping a manicure and pedicure would help, I shuffled off to the first makeover maven, Miss Marie. The only words Miss Marie could say in English were tut, tut, tut; and the more she worked on my nails, the more she said them.
Next was Eve, a short, stocky masseuse, who had hands that should have been registered with the FBI. By the time she was through kneading my flesh, I thought I had terminal cellulite.
Then I dragged my bread-dough body to the facial room. Who knew the fixings for a facial were all in my frig? Who knew guacamole was a moisturizer?
Then came Miss Tina, the makeover, makeup artist, who had a radiantly natural look. If she could be half as good with my makeup as she was with hers, my mirror would have to admit I looked like a glass act. Unfortunately, Miss Tina's radiantly natural look was natural. Although a framed certificate on the wall said she was a licensed cosmetician, she wasn't a miracle worker. After thirty minutes my left jawbone might have resembled Catherine Zeta-Jones', but nothing else did.
Last, but not least, was a hairstyling by the New You Guru. Mr. Philippe's tattoos didn't bother me. Okay, the snake around his wrist was a little creepy. What did bother me were the pictures on the walls - women with multi-colored hair, women with spiked hair - women with hair cut in geometric patterns. When Mr. Philippe asked, "What are we doing today?" I nervously replied, "Cutting my hair long".
I didn't look much different after my New You makeover, but I felt different. I felt two hundred thirty dollars poorer. The next time my mirror giggles, I might risk having seven years of bad luck.