Facial

So, its almost time for my engagement, and my family (including the soon-to-be extended one) arm-twisted me into agreeing to take a facial. I frankly thought to myself, must be a simple procedure where someone slathers some cream-sheem to my face and pampers me. But Oh! What horror of horrors awaited me!!

Scene1: (It’s 9.00am) I am shaving, and taking meticulous precautions in not cutting the varied pimples on my face. Believe it can be very painful to cut your face in such a scenario.

Scene2: (It’s 7.30pm) I head towards the beauty saloon with some trepidation having never been inside one of these saloons. I sit on the chair and inform the masseuse what all needs to be done.

Scene3: (It’s 9.30pm) The poor man is pricking away at all my pimples, blood and tears are flowing from my face. Irfan (that’s his name) is informing me that this is for my own good … yeah right!! My blood (or whatever thats left of it) is seething to a boil. Grrrrr! The chair’s arms provide a hard and cold solace against the needle’s sharp point.

Scene4: (It’s 10.30pm) My face has been brutally mutilated, with open wounds across the face, it feels like what the Mumbai stadium feels like after Shiv Sainiks have romped across the pitch.

I reach home, my cell has been constantly ringing off its hook, but in the pain endeavored moments, I could not pick them up. It’s my fiance, … “Honey, how was the facial?”

Sometimes I really wonder at the suffrage that women go through, or do they like doing these things? I think it prepares them for the pain during the delivery phase. I for one have decided that this was the last facial that I ever had. No more, no more … cholbe na ye na cholbe!!

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