Wee Free Women

I've been working like a dog for the past two weeks - think more than 100-hour work week. The hospital's practically been my second home which is why you'll notice the recent preponderance of posts about work.

But today's liberation day ( hooray! ) and I decided to treat myself to a facial over at one of those beauty and wellness centres (wo)manned by wee free women ( even shorter than a hobbit like me! What's up with that! ).

Yeah, how rare is that. I can't even recall the last time I had a facial! Sure I know the usual cliched stereotype of a fabulous homosexual man is one who has his beautician, manicurist and hairstylist all readily available on speed dial ( even stylists with the dubious name of Cherry ) - but hell, I'm an awfully bad example of any gay man. I don't even have a regular skincare regime!

I still want to hump hot dirrrty guys though so that has to count.

Despite the fact that I rarely pay a visit to these hidden sanctuaries of beauty, I have a feeling they all secretly love me. Rather conceited of me to say so but I do have my reasons.

No, not for my flawless alabaster-smooth skin or my charmingly winsome ways! Far from that actually. No doubt the wee free women in charge of these sybaritic sanctuaries find themselves blanching when they see a hobbit like me coming in - wondering which cruel goddess of fate had led me to their glade. Pretty sure these beauticians approach my pock-marked hairy-warted leather face with the anxious trepidation of hardened soldiers approaching hostile terrain.


Faith! Did I actually have a facial?
But they do have reasons to rejoice soon afterward. You see, facials make me sleepy. Right after these wee free women apply whatever questionable gunk they slather on my helpless face - whether purported sheep placenta, precious minerals from the Dead Sea or dubious herbal remedies lifted from the diaries of a long-dead beauty queen ( no doubt purloined from the secrets of the faerie queen ), I immediately fall straight into Non-REM sleep. Like a dry, clinical anaesthetic textbook, it puts people to sleep almost instantly.

Forget about general anaesthesia, folks, just head for the spas. The sweetly soporific strains of Muzak / Yanni playing monotonously in the dark, chillly cave combined with the sleep-inducing herbal teas they serve, it's not long before I'm nodding off.

Wonder if it's secretly laced with sedatives.

Paul : *Snore*
Beautician #1 : Oh waily, waily, waily! Is he finally asleep?
Beautician #2 : Dinna fash yerself. Crivens! Will ye no look at this? He's even drooling, ye ken. Thought he was gonna take forever - and I'd have to start lighting the aromatherapy candles!
Beautician #1 : Make the bigjob look winsome? Them's powers beyond our ken!
Beautician #2 : Crivens, ye wouldna believe it! So what do we do now?
Beautician #1 : I figure lunch and a movie? Gave the scunner enough to knock him out for at least three hours minimum.

That's what I figure they do anyways since I can't recall anything from the time I close my eyes. Do they actually place cucumber slices? Do they give me a massage afterward? Hell, I'm half convinced the beauticians actually steal off to read a hair-raising novel while I doze away.

Not that I'm complaining. I find I sleep better with noxious swamp mud ( from a mysterious Amazonian paradise ) on my face.

And yes, I'm reading Tiffany Aching's adventures again.