My eyes blink open under protest, as the raucous whine of the hair dryer reminds me why men think women are from outter space. I feel overcome by XY choromosomes as my attempt at sophisitcated indiffernce is struck a severe blow as I gape (as covertly as possible) as the stylist does a weird back brush turning poker straight hair into the tufty end of a 4 month old lion cub! Dementia strikes, or perhaps the hairspray finally got to her? I give up any pretension at sophistication as I now openly stare as she rolls the hair tail tuff end in, into a bun, and spends the next 14 minutes, teasing, spraying, tweaking and stabbing it into a fake chignon. The ozone layer doesn't stand a chance, as tongs, pins and other instruments of torture appear in response to blondie's, 'I have to leave in 5 min'. Regretfully, my study into the mystique of the perfectly coiffed woman is cut short as my masseuse herds me away...

Rose from Brazil assures me that my bum will be all perky and lifted within ten sessions. I valiantly contain the snort that threatens to erupt at her earnest conviction and gurgle out a 'Really?'. She nods at me beaming...and even tells me she'll talk to the manager to see if they can offer package deals for 6 or 10 sessions to make it even more attractive to the gluteusly challenged amongst us. Her hands have left me like putty, unable to take offence at her candid appraisal of my cellulite situation and I smile back benignly and promise to call for an appointment soon.....