Mirror Mirror, how i fall.

I have recently had the much talked about, to-date-alien opportunity of venturing forth into a parallel sphere of existence. Having been vehemently driven by my paling complexion (which is ‘so’ not in the white ergo complimentary hue, rather the corpse bride draconian grey context) and over inhabitant eyebrows, to set foot in what ‘they’ call a ‘beauty’ parlour. ‘They’ being the inimitable, definitive THEM that I admit I judge so very harshly for having the time, patience and inclination to spend shit loads of money on ‘their’ faces. Yes! I realise that I am being much the Judy Judgerson here, but seriously how is it that women can sit in the oversized amputation devices they call parlour recliners and have a team of ‘miscreants’ morph them into putty? Moreover how is it that they keep going back for it.

Even the likes of “I” can comprehend, the monthly trim, customary threading, and oh-so very occasional facial…what I cannot comprehend is this parallel species of parlour ‘aunties’, an intrepid breed of Pakistani women, who devote pretty much ALL their energy and passion towards improving their quintessential reflections in the looking glass, still unfortunately, not to much avail. At least not ‘much’.
How can I relate this diatribe of utmost authenticity, because it has been years since I bothered to step into this inner sanctum of beastly beauty? (I know I use this one too much)…but venture forth I did. Let it be written: this was no paramount crossover, to the Dark Side just a momentary splurge, and Master Yoda shall excuse me my transgresses, for learned from the experience I have much.

Apparently the most chronic of pathos that plagues this sanctum is that of urban legendry. I have now experienced an enormous epiphany: no wait for it……………………..............................
…..Women Talk!
Jes jes I know, pot calling kettle… but I mean as in gossip like hell talk, talk about every bloody ass person on the planet talk. In my one hour in this not-so- sacred order, I had the privilege of being a non-confidential confidant to three ‘original’ urban legend characters, the legends being formed as the tale unfolded, each linking the three parlour maids (in the least illicit sense of the word) and their subsequent fiance’s, lovers and boyfriends to the other. This I mean literally folks! PM#1 who was engaged to hmm …He-Man by the sound of it (and putting it as mildly and lady likely as I possibly can) had apparently run off with a dwarf (basically a no-man, again by the ‘sound’ of it) and He Man meanwhile took up with PM# 2 who, yes you guessed it was PM# 1’s sister! Meanwhile PM# 3 who regrettably really wasn’t as interlinked, as I would have liked to add element to the vaudeville of it all, was having an affair with some client’s husband but loved to talk about the husband in unnecessary detail, so I thought she deserved mention for her overt enthusiasm. I now know much more about the un-gentleman like gentleman then I could ever have foreseen likely or necessary for that matter.
The most engrossing and passive-aggressively depressing element of this epic is the fact that the conversation was disturbingly casual, as I was zilched in the ‘said chair’ of beauty manufacturdom, trying oh-so desperately to capture just a drop of the former, just to make myself feel nice for a day (I admit, sadly, that I have these days) the tales were flowing through my presence like pesto!

Barring the machismo of the He-Menses and the dilapidated charms of the SheRa’s, it irked me incessantly that the clientele also joined in on the stories. TRULY! I am not brain farting (for once)! They sat there, finding the opportune moment to ‘finally’ bitch about …well …other aunties and their spouses and daughters and in laws, because apparently men are boring to bitch about. Hmm now that really may be true…But I maintain that the Parlour Maids were better story tellers, and technically they were the first ever to tell stories, if you’re into gospel.

Anyhow having paid with my already pitiful soul and my even more pitiful pay-check.... I made my way back home still wondering what happened to the original Parlour Maid and the Dwarf, did they give birth to seven children and live ever after?

Who cares! My elixir of ‘fair fairdom’ is intact, enhanced even, by the gruelling event. I get home, face my proverbial looking glass, do my “ Mirror Mirror on the wall, can I even manage, just a little, at all?”.
And there it is, the bloody bugger, a zit straight on the conk, Rudolf the dumb ass lone ranger!