I've spent a very pleasant couple of hours in the beauty salon this afternoon. The delightful young beauty therapist, (who for the sake of her street cred should remain nameless, let's just refer to her as DYBT), pampered me beautifully and I exited a different woman, well, sort of. For an 18 year old she confidently managed my brazilian wax in a blasé fashion as if it was completely normal to be ripping the hair off the holiest of holies from a woman that was teaching you drama when you were 11. Poor girl. I bet that wasn't what came up as a possibility when she had her career interviews at school.
DYBT and I spent a lot of time together today. We had a run through our respective weekends. Hers promised to be a hell of a lot more exciting than mine although she made a good show of making them sound on a par. Whilst chatting, I realised that with her being 18 and me turning 36 on Thursday, I was a few days off being double her age! Shocking! Me thinking we were on the same page and chatting amiably about nights out in Watford, (ok, ok, the clubs are the same even if the names have changed five times since I last went), was like a 72 year old thinking they were akin to me. Actually, that's exactly what my Dad does and he's 72. I'm such a chip off the old block it's terrifying.
The moment of realisation came when I was asking DYBT about the sort of music would be in the club she was going to tomorrow. She said doubtfully; well, it's a house night? The question mark at the end of the sentence was definitely more pronounced than that. I know house music. I'm not that old, surely? I may not listen to it but I reckon in a line-up of music types I would have a definite shot at getting 'house' right. Maybe it's changed since my day however. Maybe I wouldn't have a fucking clue.
DYBT and I agreed on a lovely shade of sparkly gold for my nails that I'm really rather pleased with heading into my celebration week (wedding anniversary and a birthday occurring people - my poor husband). I wondered out loud how many more years I could get away with glittery fingers. My DYBT obviously told me I could wear glitter for as long as I liked, (she got a big tip). We then got into a discussion about how long we reckoned people had fanny waxes for. We came to the conclusion that it would probably be for as long as they were 'active', if you get my drift.... I certainly can't imagine that in double my birthday years I'll still be bothered. Who knows though.
So my BFF Shelley and I have decided that at 36 we might have to stop being in our early thirties at last. Shame. We eeked it out for a while. Her birthday is the 21st April and year in year out for those 17 bloody days in April I don't hear the end of quite how old I am. I seem to remember one year I may have been texted about it on practically a daily basis. Perhaps I do her a disservice.
I was hurtling to the supermarket at 9am this morning to buy emergency Easter Eggs. (It remains a generic supermarket as I am ashamed to say I darkened the doors of the nearest one to me instead of travelling across town to the more one with the more palatable clientele.) I found myself involuntarily turning my nose up at a couple of mini-skirted staggerers obviously on their way home from a cracking night out. What a short memory I have. It wasn't THAT long ago, surely.
If DYBT was expecting any pearls of wisdom from her aged-ex-teacher-mature-client today she would've been sorely disappointed. I looked her straight in the eye and told her to get shit-faced as much as possible, as often as possible, because in ten years time she wouldn't be able to do it any more and get away with it.
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