How To Survive…A Beauty Treatment On Holidays

My husband always oversees our pre-airplane itinerary and executes the travel arrangements with military gusto. Our schedule goes something like this:

• 04.05 – Alarm goes off & Hubby takes shower.
• 04.35 –  I wake and have mine.
• 04.40 – I am dressed and wake kids.
• No breakfast is permitted – we shall eat at the airport.
• Under no circumstances turn on kettle (all appliances have been switched off).
• Do not make coffee (all appliances have been switched off).
• Hubby re-checks appliances 142 times.
• Hubby re-checks all doors 67 times.
• I accidentally open back door to retrieve dried laundry – hubby now must re-check all doors 4 times.
• 05.00 – Taxi has rung to say it is outside.
• Go to waiting taxi and drag out all suitcases.
• Hubby argues with taxi man because we are five and he can only take 4.
• 05.03 – Reorder new taxi.
• Calm down wound up husband and try and quieten hyper kids roaring ‘We’re going where the sun shines BRIGHTER!‘ at the top of their lungs. It’s 5.04 am, the neighbours will kill us.
• Wave at neighbours who now hate all our guts.
• 05.07 – Drive off in new van taxi, 7 minutes behind schedule. This will affect my permitted time in the Duty Free.

Holiday preparation is exhausting with kids. B.K. (Before Kids) I would fling a pair of shorts and a top into my handbag, add my toothbrush and passport, and go.

Now – it takes a full day to decide what to bring and a full day to pack everyone’s clothes. I had dash to Lidl to buy sun cream and a packet of 6 razors, clean the house, make dinner, tidy dishes, put on a clothes wash, dry, iron and put away clothes. I drop dog up to dog minder at 8.00 pm then at 9.45 pm receive a call from dog minder to ask if I had a plan B? What? She hates my dog! No, I do not have a plan B! I made a plan A,FFS!!

I put kids to bed and attempt to fix my toenail situation. Disaster. Feet look like Hobbits trotters dipped in beef dripping. Use shade of coral and screw it up! Decide they’ll have to do. No time to shave, I’ll have to do it in Portugal the next day.

On arrival in Portugal, I spot a beauty salon near the hotel and advise the kids and hubby that Mummy is popping out for 20 minutes. Can we survive without Mummy for that amount of time? Hubby puts on his worried face, concerned I may not make it back in time for the buffet!

Twenty minutes max! Quick Pedicure that’s it! I explain and flee before the kids who have ignored me for the entire journey suddenly feel the need to confess their undying love for me at this precise moment.

‘Ola, ola!’ I say as I push the door of a teensy salon open and the bell jingles my arrival. A tired, elderly woman appears, she walks unsteadily towards me barefooted, a hand on her back. I guess her to be in her early 60’s.

‘Pedicure?’ I say in my best Portuguese accent, pointing to my feet. She looks down with disdain and wait for it,  exhales a deep and heavy sigh. Taken aback, I choose to ignore her. It’s hot and she’s clearly tired. Well I’m exhausted too!

She beckons me to a chair and tells me to roll up my trousers. She then leans over to the sink and takes out a machine built circa 1967 and plugs it in. Next, I kid you not – she takes out a bin bag AKA a refuse sack, and places it into the machine, consequently squirts in washing up liquid (not Fairy) and fills a silver mixing bowl with hot water. Chucks it into the machine and tells me to stick my feet in.

‘Oh! Deluxa Pedicure?’ I ask half joking, half frightened. My feet are in a bin bag but Treatment Lady (TL) ignores me. Once feet are boiled clean, she takes them out and motions for me to place them up on the table in front of her. Ugghhh, I hesitate, I often refer to my days as a gymnast to my eight year old (cartwheels in the back garden) but this…

‘Eu no sou bem a gymnasticas!‘ which translates loosely to ‘Are you taking the feckin’ mick?’

I place my right leg on the table and massage the incoming cramp on my right as TL takes out an industrial sized bottle of alcohol solution and sprays it over my foot like a heifer at the mart. It’s too hot and she has to leave the door of the treatment room open. A delivery man walks in with a crate of beauty products. He’s about seventy, spots me and winks! JAYZUS.

I don’t mean to boast but I do have rather cute feet. I mean I can’t say that about my big bum and thighs, but I can about my toes. They aren’t calloused and they don’t need to be decontaminated.

I am permitted to choose a nail varnish. Three are for the French manicure so I have a choice of two; red or pink. I choose red. TL points to my legs and shouts ‘EPILACAO!‘ She motions for me to remove my trousers and wipes her face with a tea-towel. I lie awkwardly on what may have been a small kitchen table and concentrate on not rolling off. She presses down on my leg and points to my bikini line. ‘EPILACAO!!‘

Ummm…OK.

‘Muinto o poco?‘ she asks but doesn’t wait for my answer. A lime-coloured hot wax is poured all over me and when I look down I gasp ‘Where is it? Where’s my bikini line!?’

Two hours later, a new, germ free and plucked version of myself shuffles into reception. My feet are gleaming with high sanitation. I bump into hubby and the kids in reception.

‘Buffet is open!’ says Hubby wearily.