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Hot Wax

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office rather than a salon. She led me to a small, clean room and instructed me to lie
on the waxing bed and close my eyes.
She carefully prepped the skin around my eyebrows and applied the warm wax
before moving her mouth close to my face and gently blowing cool air on to the wax
in order to help it set. She quickly and expertly flicked the wax off my eyebrows,
tweezed a few stray hairs and gently applied some cooling lotion. She then showed
me her handiwork in a hand held mirror – my brows looked fantastic. So neat and
beautifully shaped, I was impressed. Beauty treatment complete, I was led to the
reception counter of the salon, charged ten dollars for her service and handed a
small sachet of the lotion she used as a sample to take home.
“Thank you for visiting my salon, Lisa. I hope to see you again,” she flashed me
another gorgeous smile and sent me on my way.
I thought about this woman later when I was at home after my shift at the bakery
had ended. She was so classy and elegant, gave lovely customer service and did a
fantastic job on my eyebrows. She looked sort of out of place working in a beauty
salon, yet she still looked like she belonged there. Thoughts of the way she
presented herself so professionally, her elegant image and gentle touch stayed with
me while I trudged away at my counter top job as a bakery girl in my flour dusted
apron and my long dark hair tied back securely under an unflattering hair net,
wearing filthy shoes encrusted in yesterday’s dough from the floor. I decided then
and there that I was going to become a copy of that gorgeous, classy beauty
therapist. I finished my shift, sped home as fast as my little silver Ford would take me
and planted myself in front of my computer to begin researching local beauty
courses.
I had some money saved up from my faithful bakery job, more than enough to
pay for the best beauty course my state had to offer. As luck would have it, the full
diploma course was scheduled to begin within a couple of week’s time and there
were only a few placements left. I immediately enrolled, continued my part time
shifts at the bakery to keep some money coming in and completed my qualifications
and exams in beauty therapy within six months. The beauty college offered a job
placement system for diploma students who were just starting out in the industry so
through the college I applied for a number of positions in local salons and was
placed straight away in a small beauty salon inside a mediocre local shopping
centre. Goodbye, bakery girl.
As small and ordinary as it was, I slaved away and worked my butt off going
above and beyond my call of duty, building up my experience and client base, all the
time modelling myself on the impeccable customer service provided to me by that
gorgeous woman who once waxed my eyebrows. After four years there, I decided it
was time to move on to bigger and better and before I knew it, landed a job in a
prestigious day spa in a high end, wealthy part of town, right along the shore line of
the beach. I patted myself on the shoulder for my hard work and efforts. Things were
looking good.
***
My Journal
He’s an asshole, he’s a bastard, and I hate him! How could he do this to me? I’m not good
enough for him? Apparently I’m NOT good enough for him otherwise he would never have
been fucking my best friend for the last two months. How fucking clichéd! And it’s not even like
I can talk to anybody about this, let alone my best friend. I guess that’s why journals come in
handy. You can rant on and on and your journal is never judgemental.
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