Sven's life in Oz

Back in July, Greg kindly gave me a voucher for Style Council to get whatever I wanted from their range of beauty products, therapies and accessories.  After three months and a range of reasons for not being able to use it, I managed to get myself around for a look at what I could get with my money.  My original plan had been to get a super pair of sunnies for the summer, but on the way I stumbled through Surry Hills market and managed to get myself a pair for $20.  Sunglasses are the very definition of sod’s law: the cheapest pairs about which you care the least are the ones that will last you for years.  Decent sunglasses, like my wonderful Alexander McQueen pair, will fall apart at the most inconvenient time no matter how well you look after them. (The arm snapped off my McQueens the moment I moved to Australia. It was most annoying.) Since I was now without a mission I decided to throw caution to wind and get myself a facial. Also, my voucher was out of date by a fortnight, so it was kind of the shop to offer me anything at all.

I like to take care of myself – I have quite a skin care regime to which I stick fairly firmly.  As you know, I am an advocate of Clinique, and I use their stuff daily to keep myself looking young.  I’m all for taking care of myself, but not much of a goer for the kind of girly crap I booked in for on Saturday.  I’ve never really enjoyed massages. There’s something about people touching me that just makes me feel awkward, which is ironic given I’m quite a touchy-feely guy most of the time.  I’ve never had anything waxed, plucked, scraped or shaved. I’ve certainly never gone for anything so decadent or pointless as a facial. I may be gay but there are limits. I arrived at the appointed hour and was lead upstairs for an hour of poncey self-indulgence.

Rose, my facial technician (beauty therapist? skin care technologist?) told me everything she planned to do, which involved all kinds of rinsing, exfoliating, masks, washes, lotions and potions, but the main thing was to relax. I had an hour with nothing to do but enjoy myself. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture my internal horror at a full sixty minutes with no input of any kind and zero productivity to show for it. Nonetheless, in I went, undressed, hopped on the table and awaited the start of my treatment. Apparently I have very good skin for a thirty-year old. Rose wasn’t thrilled at my using Clinique, but she conceded it clearly hadn’t done me any harm since she wouldn’t believe I was a day over 24. This is happening to me a lot lately and I’m not going to lie to you: I fucking love it. I closed my eyes and the party began, with all manner of organic enzymes eating their way through my nasal sebum and milky washes rinsing away the dirt.  After about five minutes I stopped caring what she was putting on me and just let myself go. It. Felt. Amazing.

One hour later and I drifted off the table like a new man. I was quite astounded. I’m sure the visual differences were less noticeable for others but you couldn’t pull me away from the mirror. I was shocked by how different I looked, and the feeling! Oh, it was like I had been suffering a layer of filth for thirty years and now my real face was revealed to the world, like a grimy Eustache Dauger. I practically skipped out of the place, but not before making an appointment to go back and have it all done again in a month’s time. Whatever I may have said before, I am total convert and you will find me one Saturday a month stripped to my undies on Oxford Street, with a hot towel around my face getting worked up into a lather.

And that’s just in the afternoon.