Macam sakit sia

I would have liked coming home a hell of a lot more if it weren't for the plague-ridden Indon guy who elbowed me constantly during the entire flight. My gold Zara ballet slippers developed magical feet-attracting properties, leading to every single person with a defective bladder stepping on my kidskin covered toes during their frequent trips to the toilet. I remember vividly being dragged out of sleep by the sensation of persistent pain, and waking up saying "owowowowowowowowowoOW” and opening my eyes to see yet another Indon staring with alarm at my wild red-rimmed savage eyes and airplane frizzed hair. Fucker was standing on my toes. The last yelled OW scared him though, and he scurried away, sacrificing his place in the seemingly endless toilet queue. My plane seemed to breed pain-in-the-ass Indons like rats. I should have laid down warfarin in the ice cream.

I got off my redeye flight, grumpy and exhausted and developed a fever and cough by nightfall. If I'd known what a bloody germ factory that wanker was, I'd have thrown him out of the airplane door on a drinks trolley, Bruce-Willis Style.

Fever aside, the first week back has been severely uncomfortable.

A comment from The Boy (*glare*) prompted me to book my very first facial ever. I booked an appointment with the lady who does my eyebrows. The smell of curry gently wafting from her very large bosom was rather comforting, as were the stacks of masala instant noodles and the sight of her assistant edging between me and the air pot to refill her Milo. Let slip the inner bhayi, say I.

I got my face rubbed with like a million different creams and scrubs and then I got placed under a steamer, which made me feel like a pau. I got through it by pretending I was in the Amazon. Then suddenly it went all dark because my facialist was bending over me, and she warned, "This will hurt." And sweet fancy moses, it did. After I wiped the tears away from my eyes and marveled at how much gook she's coaxed from my skin , I paid up and staggered off, feeling very facially smug. I will admit that while on the train to my next appointment, I was looking at people and thinking "Hah! She needs a facial. I had a facial. I win!" That was until I actually had a look at myself in the mirror. How come no one told me that after a facial you will have what likes like the worst skin of your life? I looked both shiny and acne-ed, with violent red spots like aubergines sprouting.

Feeling somewhat deflated, me and my horrible skin went to try a new hair slaon, i.e. Shunji Matuso's Icon at Wisma. I first saw Cupcake in the mirror across mine, blowing his already high hair even higher so it towered up to about a foot in height. It was Princess Diana styled by Fran Drescher. And he was wearing a woman's blouse from Zara (from two seasons ago, that cheap bitch.) Add to that green eyeshadow and the worst jawline in the world, like an undershot greyhound.

Naturally, he turned out to be my stylist. Mental sigh. He told me what I already knew (your hair sucks) and then swanned off to prep for some Her World photoshoot while some gormless monkey sloshed water around my forehead in a parody of washing my hair. I was then left to marinate in my dripping hair while Cupcake gamboled and struck ladyposes in front of the cameras for twenty minutes. He deigned to return to me for about a minute, most of which consisted of him despairing of how to cut my mane, before cutting me off mid-sentence as he pranced squealing like a piglet to the entrance where some friends of his had appeared. Clearly, my unfabulous skin was not working the gay man mojo.

After another interminable wait, Cupcake eventually appeared dragging another hapless stylist by the arm. "Sorry hah, but I got some customers, so he will cut for you, okay?" I took all the pain from my facial and put it into my deathglare at Cupcake, who tittered nervously and say, "Erm…okay?"

I hate Cupcake.

He eventually went off to fondle some 16 year old boy's hair while I reacquainted myself with my second stylist in thirty minutes, who blessedly did not make a song and dance over the state of my hair and did his job like a fucking professional, unlike Little Miss Gay Blouse 2007. I'm never going back there again.

After I recovered from the trauma of my very first facial and from not throttling Cupcake (he was weedy, I could have taken him easy), I went for a brazilian, where, unfortunately, my regular waxer was not around. Important note: if you ever go to Spahaven, ask for Dion, who is a painless Angel of Mercy, and not Michelle, who is the Attila the Hun of hot wax. Mistress Pain believed that wax needed to be the temperature of the earth's core to work, and managed to tap me hard in a VERY sensitive area down south, causing me to fall off the table. She also, at some point, decided to glue my ass cheeks together. Surgical intervention was required to prevent me from becoming a unibutt. Her bedside manner was also eerily reminiscent of Josef Mengel. Never again.

The weekend was spent earning my one star certification for kayaking (not my idea), which completely undid all the good work done my facial. I don't know why I bother.

But, now I'm fit for company. Takers?