I was disgusted at the rope of white marshmallow-like goo extracted from my midriff by the white-uniformed beautician. My first experience of liposuction was definitely going to be my last. I asked the beautician to stop my free trail, gathered up my clothes, and left the treatment room. I had apparently ‘benefited’ from £3000 worth of free treatment.
Next, a hairdresser try to tempt me to a cut and blow dry. Her sales patter invoked a long list of names from my past, including JS – my quiet, red-haired, brainy primary school friend.
‘I can take you to JS right now’, the hairdresser boasted, ‘She’s in the café with her mother and her siblings’.
JS looked terrible. Her beautiful red hair had thinned to almost nothing and, now in her 50s, her shyness had rendered her mute. Meanwhile her mother appeared to be in complete control of her. When their food was delivered to their table, it was the mother who took control of JS’s kipper, force-feeding it up her daughter’s nose.
‘It’s the only way that we can get food into her’, claimed the mother claimed cruelly, ignoring her daughter’s evident discomfort.
I left in digust for my next adventure: to be chased through the forest by loud, ferocious, sharp-fanged, wild grey wolves.