Massage and a show!

The thing I love most about Bali is the affordable pampering. I love a massage of any kind, usually. On our last Bali - "Because We Are 40" Tour, we indulged in many a pampering session. However, there is one that stands out well and truly above the rest. 

We had been hitting the uneven pavement all day and were in desperate need of some foot and lower leg work. We'd seen a sign earlier in the day advertising a place near our hotel that would specialise in exactly what we were after. It was above a restaurant, which during the day seemed empty and easy enough to navigate through. However, once the sun went down, it was a different place. People milling around out the front trying to get in. Perhaps they were lured by the scantily clad fire twirling lady who blocked the only entrance.....OH&S? 

 My aching limbed companion, ML and I waited for a left weighted twirl so we could squeeze by her on the right hand side without being singed. If you could imagine the movement you do with your hands when it's your turn to run into/through the jump rope.....that was us. Then all of a sudden our luck changed. Her burning hula hoop slipped to the ground and we took our chance. We excused me'd and pardon me'd our way through the mosh pit of diners until we reached the back staircase..... Just near the bins and toilets! Up those stairs was where our pampering would begin. 

At first glance around the 'salon' it appeared empty. One man sat looking very relaxed in one of the 6 foot/leg chairs and one woman waiting patiently on a chair in front of a mirror.  They must have offered hair dressing as well.  However, when we sat down we realised that there were more people behind screens. Australian people. Australian men. Embarrassing, Australian, drunk men who clearly weren't aware that we could hear every word they were saying as if they were only behind a flimsy curtain..... Because they were indeed behind a very flimsy curtain.  There was talk of "so, what time do you finish up here?" and "hahahah, wouldn't it be funny if we asked for a happy ending? hahahah...." "No seriously.... does anyone ask you for one of them?" ML and I sat in our foot/leg chair staring at each other trying to send each other telepathic messages of "O.M.G!"

The men came out from behind the curtain one by one and realised that there were other people, but didn't  seem to feel embarrassed at all.  They headed back downstairs for their dinner and "MORE BEERS, MORE BEERS"(imagine this sung) - they had only popped upstairs between courses for a quick one!  All, except one - Johno, he stayed up for a bit more foot and leg work.

By this stage the lady who was sitting in the hair dressing chair was becoming agitated.  She had been waiting for her usual lady who had been in with the Aussie gents.  She kept checking her watch and tutting.  She was clearly not on Bali Time!  Her therapist finally escorted the woman to the back of the salon to wash her hair.  Then she came screaming back out the front because she'd forgotten her shampoo so, doubled over at at the waist, with long hair flouncing in her face, began to rummage through her bag.  Her hair naturally got in the way and then it became a crazed dance performance of hair flicking and tutting and inaudible mutterings.  I couldn't take my eyes off her!

Completely mesmerised, I was startled when the door opened and in walked 5 French men, they had obviously made it through the fire twirling lady at the front and their reward was to be massaged.  The salon was quite packed now and the Balinese ladies were having trouble trying to find therapists to suit everybody.  I'm most sure where these therapists were hiding but they seemed to come from everywhere.  There doesn't seem to be a "Sorry, we're booked" Policy.  There are no breaks for these workers.  These Frenchmen were all friends and had travelled to Bali together from 5 different parts of France.  They spoke excellent English and after we got the life story of each one they were more than happy to get into the hair styled performance that was still happening before us.  

She was in a real hurry now, so back down to the sink she ran, kicking one of the Balinese offerings that was on the floor.  No time or cultural respect to salvage that.  I had a clear view of the hair washing from my comfy foot/leg chair and at times couldn't contain my laughter.  The stylist was trying to give her the treatment she had asked for, but this woman snatched the shampoo (her own, brought in from home) out of her hand and washed her hair herself in one of those lay back in a hairdresser types of chairs - no mean feat!

  

Then once the washing and conditioning ritual was over, out they rushed again to dry her poor over worked follicles!  This is when it all became too much.  The laughter and chattering and 'I can't believe it' eye rolling was universal between the Balinese women and us.  She made having her hair blow dried into a complete theatrical performance.  She was tossing her head upside down and flicking it back up again then brushing it within an inch of its life.  Now, ML has waist length hair and comes from a beauty background and I also have hair...... so neither of us were strangers to the hair dryer so we had to hold each other down to stop us from snatching the dryer off that woman to show her how you actually dry hair - pointing the hot end towards your hair might have been a good start.... 

The woman's name, we learned through all of this, was Stephanie and during all the mayhem of her getting organised and then applying make up and getting dressed, all in full view of the people trying to have a relaxing foot/leg massage.  We also learned that she was off to work and she was very late and was meeting somebody in a hotel somewhere.  By this time everyone in the salon was into the conversation.  She claimed to be French and spoke in an unrecognisable European accent.  However, the Frenchmen, all hailing from different regions of France assured us that there was no way she was French.  "Is it the accent that gives her away?" I asked my new French friend.  "No, her behaviour!" he replied, almost disgusted.

Then all of a sudden, she got up, grabbed her bag, rammed all her belongings into it, tossed money on the counter and she was gone.  The whole salon erupted in laughter and then the real story came out.  Apparently Steph was a regular at the salon and would come in every day or two and would go through that whole saga. "She thinks she's our friend" admitted one of the therapists quite candidly and perhaps a little unprofessionally?  Johno, who had been sitting closest to her informed us that she said she was a 'seasonal worker' in Bali which raised quite a few eye brows and questions from the Frenchmen.

{I got this picture from the internet - but it could actually be Stephanie!}

This was what I called Massage and a Show - Bali style!

Wherever I Lay My Hat.........

Waking at "the crack" after an anxious, fitful sleep on a friend's couch in London, I made my way to Heathrow's brand new Terminal 5 for a flight to Stuttgart to meet my lovely friend for a weekend of German sausage and beer.  After the recent opening debacle where 1000's of passengers were separated from their luggage, I decided to take a small carry on backpack, just to be safe.

When checking in at the self serve machines, I was given seat 12c, in the aisle but decided to change it for a couple of reasons.  1. I was very tired and thought I would lean on the window to sleep and 2. I'd recently read a story about a plane crash where everyone in the front half of the plane was killed, so I chose the window seat in the very back seat - 22A.  

As I settled in, it became clear that seat 22B was going to be occupied by a handsome, older gentleman who looked extremely familiar.  He was tall and wore a leather jacket and lots of 'product' in his dark hair which was dashingly speckled with grey.

He seemed to have little regard for those around him as he talked loudly on his phone to someone called "Beautiful" all the way to the back of the plane.  He hung up as swung himself into his seat, so I wasn't able to get the full story on "Beautiful".

He was so familiar but I just couldn't put my finger on it.  I couldn't help but stare at the side of his head.  I could feel my brow furrow as I desperately searched my memory.  I knew I didn't know him personally and that he was probably famous for some reason.  Perhaps a singer?

He sat down, nudged my elbow off the armrest, got his laptop out, put his 'noise reducing' headphones on and for the entire 2 hour flight, fiddled with the same song on Garage Band.  The reason I know it was the same song is because I could hear the tinny excess coming from his 'noise reducing' headphones!  I discretely searched his laptop screen for a log in name or something that would give away his identity but to no avail, but the fact that he was rearranging music made me think that my initial thought that he was a singer could have been correct.

"Just ask him" said the voice in my head..... "Just say, Excuse me, where do I know you from?' or ask, 'Are you a singer?'"  But my knowledge of personal space and boundaries stopped me from listening and acting on what I clearly wanted to do.  And the fact that he hadn't been one bit friendly since he sat down told me that he probably didn't want to be disturbed.

Now, the tinny music coming from people's headphones generally drives me insane instantly, however I had endured it for a good hour and a half so I thought to hell which personal space and boundaries and I tapped his arm and said "I'm sorry but do you think you could turn your music down please mate?"  He didn't say a word and he didn't look at me.  He simply took off his headphones, turned off his laptop and put it away.  Now you would think that this would be my opportunity to ask him who the hell he was....... but no, the fact that he didn't look my way or mumble anything, not a "oh, I'm sorry about that" or "Could you hear it, I'm sorry" - you know, like normal people who give a shit about people around them.  So I was caught off guard and lost what seemed like it should have been an opportunity.

The plane landed, he got up and left.  I chose to wait in my seat rather than rush into the squashed aisle to stand sardine style front to back until the doors opened and I was so bemused by my dealings with this nameless famous man that it was probably better to keep my distance.

As he walked towards to door a name came to me.......... Paul Young.  Now, what the hell did he sing?

I had to wait until I'd collected my bag, gone through customs and met my friend so I could point him out and then she could come up with the information...... we had to google him.

Wherever I lay my hat?  Oh that's right.  What a wanker!

Door Bitch

Now this tale has nothing to do with travel, nor does it have anything to do with other odd people I've met along the way....... it has only to do with me and my own stupidity!

I've just had a security door fitted and the day after it was installed, I went outside to check the mail and put the junk into the recycling and as I spun around, I tried to cross the threshold as I would have done the day before, however with my new security screen sitting there - stealth like, I was taken completely by surprise when I walked face first into the screen making my hands fly up causing skin to be taken from most of my knuckles as well as my nose and forehead.

A quick look around to see if anyone was watching...... all clear.

So I opened the new security door, as intended and retreated inside to inspect my injuries.  I tell you what, checking the mail is not as safe an activity as you think!

No photos of this one, for obvious vanity reasons.

Bali, cause we're 40!

GeoTagged, [S37.76841, W145.00259]

I have had the same group of gorgeous girlfriends since we began primary school together at the tender age of 6. For years we had been trying to organize a group holiday but with kids and families and distance all getting our way, it never eventuated. That was until the year we turned 39.

We were all together at one of our houses having dinner together when the topic of our looming 40th year came up. "How about an overseas trip with no husbands or kids?" came the suggestion from the single, childless one of the group. A unanimous "oh yeah, that sounds great" resounded whilst married ladies tried not to make eye contact with their loved ones!

Having a travel agent among our group of friends came in very handy and we were soon receiving location, accommodation and day spa ideas. It was so exciting to be spending some quality time with these fabulous ladies.

Most of the girls live on the west coast of Australia so Bali was the perfect location. Quick, cheap flights; yummy, cheap food; fabulous, cheap massages.... What's not to love?

On our travel agent extraordinaire's recommendation we stayed at the magical Dusun Resort in Seminyak. Our own piece of Balinese paradise, complete with our own private pool.

We shopped at little shops and markets, we drank Bintang and coconut juice, we ate the most amazing Balinese food and we were pampered by the strong hands of the Balinese massuers.  We tried Indian head massages, hand and foot, back and face, milk hair baths - every combination they offered, we tried!  Our favourite belly laugh was when Shelley, Jodie and Chris went for a massage at the same time and our bill was made out to Shirley, Judy and Christ.....

It was so lovely to spend time with these amazing ladies that it was very sad when it was time to go.  We don't spend nearly enough time together, but when we do get together, it's like it was yesterday - but usually our bowels are all normal! :-(  thank you imodium.

I love you all dearly ladies.

xxx

The Barber of South London

I was living in South London and I desperately needed my hair done.  To do that in London for under £100 you need to either do it yourself or you go to the little place across the road from our building called “Tingles”.  I normally do my own hair but this time I chose the latter….

I wasn’t sure how the woman who introduced herself as the hairdresser achieved her qualifications, but nonetheless, she had her own business and there will always be broke mugs like me who would choose to go to her for her follicle services.

A cut and colour was requested, but I should have realised and backed out when she looked at my nearly black hair and asked if I wanted to keep the streaks!  I explained that they weren’t streaks, they were just bits of hair where the last colour didn’t take as well….. so she just repeated the question.  Those warning bells obviously weren’t loud enough, so into the chair I sat, bewildered, and yet still willing to let this lady near my tresses. 

I’ve been colouring my hair for 21 years and I think that qualifies me to know a little bit about my own hair and indeed the process of colouring.  Without anymore conversation or qualifying, the colour had been mixed and she was dragging a broken bits and pieces tray over to me (alarm bell no. 2) and started to slap the colour onto my head and massaged in as if she were shampooing it (alarm bell no. 3) I stopped her after the 2^nd slap and asked if she perhaps had any Vaseline to put around my hair line as my skin dyes very easily and it doesn’t come off!!  No, no, she assured me, I will wash it off when we wash the colour off. (in 40 minutes – when the dye would have surely set onto my skin)  So, to prove a point, I let it set (it was only in hindsight that I realised that my making said point really only cost me my dignity – I had achieved nothing except for that smug feeling of being right.)

We got over to the sink and I was asked to sit in an old leather chair with rips in the seat (abn.4) that was so high I had to pull the chair out quite far and put my head back into the sink….. so my head was lower than my bum! Is this sounding wrong to anyone?

The “assistant” who was not the usual young apprentice, but an older lady, with not much hair of her own and who was sitting in the chair talking to an old guy who was there, her husband perhaps? Now, it was obvious to blind freddy that this woman had no hairdressing experience and yet she was going to shampoo my hair. I laid back and looked at the broken light fittings and dodgy paint job on the ceiling while she flicked shampoo into my face/eyes, I had to speak up… could you please try and keep the shampoo on my hair and could you try to get the dye off my skin please? I asked calmly.  The hairdresser heard me and called out, ”Do it when you condition!”  This was clearly a very professional establishment who was maybe aiding a ‘work for the Dole scheme’? It didn’t surprise me that I was their only customer. So, we got to the conditioning, which she mainly applied, again to my eye area, and then started to rub with the “special” dye on skin removing stuff… and so the scrubbing began.  After five full minutes and my skin starting to burn… I ask a little more smugly, “So, is it coming off?” The little voice from behind my blood swelling head replied, “It’s coming off slowly.”  The head honcho lady came racing over and snatched the flannel off her hapless assistance to scrub a little more.  This is where I take my opportunity to say, “It’s a good idea to use Vaseline around the hairline.  The dye still gets on the skin, but it is much easier to get it off.”  She replied by stating the obvious “Well, you see, Vaseline acts as a type of barrier…”  I agreed “Yes, that’s the point!”  She walked away as if she hadn’t heard leaving me with her assistant who cared even less of my inked plight.

With the scrubbing over and the hair rinsed, my personal hairdressing stylist asked me if I want to have my hair blow dried… trying to keep the cost down, I inquired as to how much that would set me back.  At £20 I declined her kind offer as I could happily walk across the road and do that myself.  With that, she said “Ok, there you go then.” This confused me so I inquired, “Are you not going to cut it?”  There were so many warning bells at that moment that I couldn’t hear myself think and that is why I still let her near my hair with scissors! “Oh, you want it cut as well?” she asked, a little surprised. “Yes, yes I do”, I stammer apprehensively all the while thinking ‘Run woman. Run!’  So she cut it in a way that I could have done, I paid my less than £100 and I walked home to blowdry my hair myself. 

The stains lasted a few days and it took a few more vigorous washes on my part to get it off.  The colour actually turned out ok and the cut is, well…. It was a trim – can you really go wrong there?

I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I will not be going back to Tingles.  Let that be a warning to you all.

This is what it should have looked and did when I went to a proper hairdresser and spent many many pounds!