Let the fun begin

It was our weekly Tuesday team meeting and as is the norm at some point, we began the beauty beat. For some strange reason, my editor's eyes locked on me and wouldn't budge. I felt myself squirming. I knew what was coming, there was no escape. I whimpered piteously, sank deep into my swivel chair and gave myself up to my fate.

The reason for my utter and abject despair is that when it comes to knowledge on matters of make-up and skincare, I belong in District 9 (as in the alien movie) - ousted and best left alone.

Up until a few weeks ago, I was under the impression that threading was a kind of embroidery. But I am all too educated now, and it's been a learning curve that has not been entirely without pain.

In what I hoped was a valid excuse for not writing on beauty related topics, I cleared my throat and dared to voice the same true but rehearsed and exhausted explanation that many a girlfriend of mine has been appalled by. "You've never had a facial? Never as in… ever? What is wrong with you?'

Faced with such reactions, and worse, I was hardly about to progress to the fact that I've never had my eyebrows plucked, make-up applied by someone else or had a manicure and pedicure.

I know it sounds implausible, but it's the truth. And that's what probably sealed my fate as I found myself being told to do a ‘Beauty for Dummies' feature as my initiation into this foreign world.

I'm hoping that I am not the only poorly groomed git to have never been pampered, plucked and perfumed. To my fellow hirsute, open-pored and unsophisticated girls out there who would sooner have a mud wrestling match than brave a salon treatment, I extend my sympathies. Having done that though, I should say at this point that my experience was not at all bad. In fact, I might even try that massage thing again…

The facial

My relationship with beauticians is precarious, and is based on the instances of judgment I've received from those infinitely more pristine than myself (oh OK, the thousands).

Once, after running a 10K and braving the ladies' tent (purely for a leg rub and some free energy drinks) I was informed - bluntly - by a well-preened princess that I suffer from ‘extensive sun damage'. Would I like her to show me how to apply make-up? For crying in a bucket, lady, who looks good after exercise? If she had spent the last five years pulling drowning kids out of the ocean as a lifeguard, she too may have looked a little more prune-like. Self-image in tatters, I decided that I was better off not being run into the ground about my impending need for Botox at the tender age of 24. I have since hissed ferociously at any of my friends who timidly suggest a facial.

But here I was, at Marie France on Al Wasl Road in Dubai, for the first instalment of what I assumed to be an excruciating ordeal of ego-slamming. Needless to say, on informing the receptionist that this was my first facial and I was a pawn for a beauty story, I got the ‘uh-huh, no kidding' look.

Whisked off to a tiny little room full of fluffy white towels and ethereal elevator music, I was instructed to change into a beige elasticised sack. ‘Eh?' was my immediate reaction. How much of a mess could face cream possibly make?

What was even more confusing was Wendy - my sweet and respectfully aghast beautician - asking for my arms (local anaesthetic was my first optimistic thought). It was when she hauled out the bucket of boiling paraffin wax and asked me to put my hands in it that panic set in. Say what? Forget ego-slamming, this whole business was plain sadistic! Dunking my hands into the boiling wax, silenced by horror, I was utterly mystified. Did facial not imply face? Meaning: exclusive attention to that region? The whole arm thing had me flummoxed. But after the wax dried, I was overcome by curiosity. I looked like my own version of a Madame Tussaud's figurine! I think I may have freaked Wendy out (after she'd put the plastic gloves on, causing a delightful suction) with my Freddy Kruger impersonation.

Lying on the bed as Wendy explained to me the cleansing, moisturising and toning actions of the facial, it felt like a science lesson. In fact, she may as well have been speaking in ancient Greek as she delved into the mineral properties and different solutions used to work into the epidermal depths of my leathery hide. Her rigorous rubbing and scrubbing had a determination as though she were trying to cure it.

But somehow, my scepticism and dubiousness melted away with each knead, and I was lulled into a kind of catatonic state as she worked what I can only call magic. I was on the brink of being completely hypnotized by the engulfing candle scent and circular temple rubbing, when a single word jarred me out of my reverie… ‘acupuncture'.

I jolted as though I'd been tasered. There was no way I has signed up to be treated like a human pin cushion! Instructing me to relax, my muscles solidifying in protest, I awaited the stabbing. None came. Tiny little pricks worked at my face that felt no more uncomfortable than pins and needles. Wendy was a genius.

After the wax hands, the face mask was the next best thing. Acting as a solution to the gunk on my face with a blissful cooling sensation, I was left with my eyes glued shut for 15 minutes. Not being able to open my eyes at free will had an extreme effect on my imagination. By the time Wendy returned, I was convinced that my physical body ceased to exist and that I was the equivalent of Kevin Bacon in Hollowman.

Emerging from Marie France, I felt inexplicably relaxed and, dare I say it, rejuvenated. Sure, I did get the standard-issue reprimand from Wendy about my lack of moisturising (I use multi-purpose body cream, which apparently is a big no-no) and the fact that a toner and cleanser have never made their regular way onto my skin. But looking in the mirror under the cruel fluorescent light, the cracks, lumps and bumps exposed in their most garish form, I had a gruelling realisation: I am ageing, and dehydrating my skin is not doing me any favours.

Thankfully, I'm still young enough to do the needful. And if you, like me, haven't begun the annoyingly daily measures your mother told you that one day you would regret not doing when you were young… well what are you waiting for?

For more information, visit www.mariefrance.com

The make-up session

Arriving at Beautybay in Oasis Centre, and foolishly so, immediately after the facial, I resembled a beacon: very shiny and with blotches flashing like an ambulance siren. Introduced to my two make-up aficionados, Tracey and Daisy, I was crestfallen: did I really look that bad? They looked terrified at the prospect of making me glamorous. Sitting me down on a high-chair and stammering a few words of dismay to the manager who had just arrived on the scene, that the ‘model from Friday' was here, I barked out a laugh and hurriedly gushed: ‘Oh no! I'm not a model! I'm just the writer!' Sighs of relief all around.

Soon my skin, beautifully cleaned, albeit bare and glaring, was set to work upon with the same urgency as a South African-All Blacks rugby scrum: touch, pause and engage.

I was patiently shown why a sponge is the best way to use foundation, what colours would best suit my complexion, and why bigger brushes are better for applying face powder and blush. All mirrors were turned in the opposite direction, which may have been a charitable move on their part considering their expressions upon encountering me post-facial.

Rouge Bunny Rouge colour codes having been cracked to help my face, lip liner, lipstick and lip gloss freshly applied (I know - there are three steps for your lips alone!) I was wheeled around to meet my fate.

Not bad. Sure, no Madonna, but a marked improvement from my daily mask that consists exclusively of mascara and concealer. ‘I look quite pretty!' I exclaimed. The girls clapped their hands in delight.

For more information visit www.mybeautybay.com.

The full body massage

There could have been no better day for the full Swedish massage at Elche just off of Jumeirah Beach Road. It was a Thursday late afternoon and I was frazzled, fatigued and flustered. I hurled myself through the door, hair flying in all directions, resembling a disastrous version of Diana Ross in Dubai humidity. Dark rings under my eyes - a combination of poor sleep and two days of caked mascara [a sorry sight after my glowing complexion post-facial a week previously] - my shoulders hunched up to my ears, I was one impressive ball of stress.

I was sat down by an ethereal Eszther and made to breathe while we awaited Brigitta, my masseuse. Whisked into a candlelit room, I was left to slip into a towel. Placed face down on what I can only call the ‘operating table' (relieving my level of stress, I believe, would be nothing short of a highly developed science), Brigitta began working her Swedish-inspired magic

Let's just say that during this process I discovered places that wobble that no one would ever have guessed could wobble at all. Brigitta worked her strong Hungarian hands on my feet (poor lass), my calves and my lower back. It was when she hit the mid-back zone that things became complicated. My back, as it turns out, has more knots than your average cat's cradle gone wrong. Every time Brigitta hit one of the danger zones, I nearly shot through the ceiling. My back was a landmine, and Brigitta tread cautiously. She sensibly armed herself with a massage cup and progressed with vacuum therapy, widely used nowadays for treating a variety of human diseases and - to my horror - fat. But then again, it worked like magic.

My neck was even worse than my back, and Brigitta's Hungarian vigour was pushed to the limits. But it wasn't painful. If anything it was like she was slowly pulling at strings that had been tied way too tight for way too long.

After the hour was up, Brigitta was my hero and I was nearly fast asleep. I sat up (still looking like a Diana Ross disaster) but I felt weightless. I floated down Elche's stairs and found myself speaking in some strange, outer-bodily voice that sounded wholly foreign to me.

Strip away stress, and it's amazing what version of ‘you' you are left with.

For more information, visit www.elche.ae

The mani/pedi

Approaching NBar at Ibn Battuta, I cannot deny that I was curious. Opening the door, my assumptions proved correct: bright pink walls, shelves teeming with nail polish, this was a girl's world… on steroids. I was a fish out of water, a square peg wiggling about in a very, very round hole. I was ungroomed, I was femininely uncouth: I was terrified. My feet are generally an artistic composite of blisters from running shoes and nails just that little bit too long (my weapon of choice for water polo), not to mention the occasional guest appearance of one large, rather dead-looking toenail (who had decided to rock up for today's show. Perfect timing, as always). My hands were not much better. One word: chewed.

But the ladies at NBar were very accommodating of my poor hands and feet. Faced with the technicolour dreamcoat equivalent of colours, I opted for pale pink - the less obvious the better. Not having seen nail varnish remover in my house, well, ever, I pre-empted the fact that my nails would have the dalmatian effect within days, which would remain until I managed to scrape the last few flakes off some weeks later.

I was sat down and simultaneously scrubbed, buffed and filed with the same intensity as Michelangelo reserved for David - chiselled, shaped and polished to perfection. How Laine (on hands) and Hani (on feet) managed to do the half moon tips of my French manicure freehand was beyond me. The last time I tried to paint my nails (in a rather angry red) my hands ended up looking like some horrific victim from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Miraculously, by the end of it, my nails ceased to look haggard and my sorry-looking toenails looked astoundingly normal.

But, as is to be expected with me, I smudged it not once, but twice, and much to poor Hani's frustration. I was shuttled to the dryer and made to sit still in my corner, hunched over like some sorry looking creature at a computer (for the first time, I felt quite at home). We encountered the second hurdle when I was asked where my open shoes were. Uh, oh.

Dear Hani presented me with the shower cap counterpart of disposable shoes. It was with tremendous abashment that I shuffled back to my car resembling an escapee from a hospital ward.

But my nails do look pretty. And I think that it's high time that I stop nibbling at them. After all, all little girls have to grow up at some point.

For more information visit www.tomooh.ae/NBAR.htm