Today I booked the afternoon off work in order to study. I had it all planned: I'd meet my boyfriend for lunch and then I'd go home and have a really productive afternoon, reading making notes and generally getting sorted and up to date on my course.  I'd booked an appointment at 5.15 at the beauty salon - a waxing.  A great day of getting stuff sorted! Hmmm, the best intentions.

Lunch was lovely but by the time I sat down to work it was 3pm.  OK, this was mostly because I'd had a sneaky read of the newspaper instead of just sitting down and getting on with the work in hand, so when I did open my books and realised the time I was cursing myself for a wasted hour.  True, not the most positive of attitudes, but I am rather prone to over-thinking situations...

Then there were complications that I won't go into - basically it involved several phone calls and the result was my boyfriend needed to collect a friend from the airport straight from work at 5pm, and to do that he would have to walk up to my his Mum's house, which is where we keep the car... Not wanting him to be late to the airport I offered to go and get the car and stick it in a car park near his work... all fine but bear in mind I started my studying at 3pm, and then had these phone calls.  In the end I was getting ready to leave the house at 4.20pm, having read half a chapter.  NOT the afternoon of productivity I'd envisaged...

4.30pm.  It's freezing.  My hands are that attractive white-blue colour. I march up the hill to Mum's house, making it in a record 12 minutes (or so - I'm not that anal).  The tank is empty so I have to get petrol  - by the time I drop the car off at the car park it's 5.05pm.  Perfect timing for my waxing appointment, yes, but had I done any sodding work?  No I had not.

I arrive at the beauty salon with my hair in a messy ponytail, a bright red nose and numb fingers.  I sit in the chair watching the women at work in the nail bar, bent forward under the strips of white light, holding hands and chatting quietly.  It's an intimate scene, they are involved and relaxed and I am alone at the edge of the room, aware of my horrific nails.  I hide my hands beneath my thighs while I wait for my lady to emerge.

She does, smiling and we walk to the back room.  The room is warm and welcoming with Portuguese music playing.  This is a new salon for me.  My usual lady is having a baby and the only other girl available is as bad at waxing as me, I know from experience.  I don't want to pay £20 for such pain.  This new lady steps out while I take off my boots and jeans and step onto the bed.  She comes in chatting.  She waxes.  It hurts a fair bit.  She tells me in a bossy voice that I need to exfoliate, and never, ever shave.  "Relax" she says, over and over, and I realise just how tense I am.  I say aloud, "I think I am always tense.  I need to learn to relax."  I feel silly and awkward, quite girlish while she determinedly rips at my skin with material strips. I start to worry that I am always worried.  When will I learn to relax?  This woman is so confident, I am so apologetic.

Then she says "and now for your eyebrows".  I think "huh?" and realise she must have mis-read the appointment book - I only booked a Brazilian wax, but I am too shy to say no.  I feel a bit silly but I don't mind having my eyebrows waxed...

"What is going on with your eyebrows?"

I don't know.  What is going on with my eyebrows?  I am alarmed.  My eyebrows are perfectly fine as far as I know.  I don't say this, I shrug and laugh nervously.  I don't really like how much I laugh nervously.

"This one is thicker than this one." she says.

"Oh."  I say.  

She waxes them.

"You need a facial". 

"Sorry?"

No - I hadn't mis-heard.  She repeats it, apologetically and adds, "you have a blackhead - here."

Oh god.  I hate this woman and love her for being so honest.  But I am not ready for this. Without saying anything, she squeezes it.  As she squeezes she says "I will get rid of it for you.  I can't abide blackheads."  She shows me the white line of pus she has removed from my forehead.  I don't know what to say.  "Lovely.  Thank you." I say.  She looks down at me.  

"You are crying."

I realise my right eye is watering. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"Twenty-three and crying over a spot!"  she laughs.

"I'm not crying!  My eye was watering!"

By this point I am feeling pretty embarrassed.  I have obviously been walking around for months with uneven eyebrows, big black marks and skin clearly in need of a facial.  I practically crawl home.

Then, when I'm home I realise that although I'm peeved she probably has a point.  A facial would be good to clear my skin out properly.  And a blackhead does not make me a bad person.  And although she has a point, I'm also not an ugly freakish freaky person.  I'm sure someone else would have told me if that was true.  She is a beautician and she is trying to sell £40 facials.  That is also an element.  I don't feel so bad now.

This is not a good day.  I was kneeling down to write this.  As I typed that last sentence, the phone rang.  I got up to answer it and my feet had gone completely to sleep.  I fell straight onto my back.  We have a hard wooden floor.  I'm sure it would have been quite funny to see;  I literally fell like a tree.  I screamed in panic and pain.  I have never experienced that before and the shock of it was probably worse than the pain.  The pain was pretty bad and I thought for a minute that I could have broken my back.  I am on my own.  I slid along the floor, crying, and reached my mobile.  I dialed my boyfriend's number.  I got his voicemail.  He's in a pub with no f-ing reception.  By this point I realise I am probably not paralysed and I calm down.  Geez though, this is not a good day.

F*** the study, I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine and watch a movie.