Yesterday afternoon it was Saturday and I wasn’t feeling well. To cheer myself up, I decided to treat myself to a pedicure. (If you read my post “You are what you wear…” you would know that I D.I.E. for beauty treatments).

It started off well as I found a great, local peluqueria where it costs about £3 for a pedicure. I slipped off my flip flops, and got comfy on the white plastic chair, safe in the knowledge that my feet are in pretty good shape having only set foot in the same place two weeks prior. But, bam! I was mistaken. The lady took one look at my feet and screamed out loud. Literally. She laughed so hard that people turned to stare. I had a cold. I had been in bed all afternoon. My nose was sore, and I just wanted a bit of pampering. No worries, we moved on, past the laughter and stares to selecting a colour. She ripped out her top drawer of goodies and thrusted the box on my lap. It was a Pandora’s box of nail varnishes. I decided at this point that she was slightly mental, and this was not normal behaviour…

The massacurist

I stare into the abyss in search of a colour

As I reached in, she caught sight of my hands. I had been doing my art all morning and had most of my drawing festering underneath my nails. I mean they weren’t that bad…they just weren’t ‘Saturday night’ good. But I had no plans other than my bed, and was here to get pampered. By this point, between her regional accent spoken at speed and my Spanish, I agreed to a manicure too. No worries, I love manicures and had lots of time. This would be great. I will leave to go back to bed with great looking feet and hands.

However, she’s not satisfied as she’s now got my face gripped in her hands. I apparently have a moustache. Right, OK. I mean, no one has told me this before, and I was pretty sure I would have noticed. I am shouted ‘bigote’ on numerous occasions, and feel that this is not the most complimentary word to be shouted at in a room of groomed Colombians. I surrender. I am slightly afraid. I am suddenly covered in chocolate and my bigote leaves my face with what I would have previously mistaken for as desert. But I have not yet passed her quality control. Apparently my eyebrows are something unheard of too, although I have no idea exactly what, as they too leave my face in a wipe of chocolate wax.

By now, I’m buffed, polished and waxed within an inch of life, the manicurist massacurist applies top polish to my toenails and grabs my leg, feeling me up. She’s hunting for her next victim. Apparently, my one-day old shaved legs pass the test. I am howled a story about her friend, her legs and I’m sure the word ‘knife’ was used when describing her friend’s woeful tale of hair removal. I thank God I shaved yesterday.

I am saved. I have passed Colombian quality control. I pay up.

Only here would the entire experience cost me £8. I pay her a tip. After all, she’s kind of done me a favour. I head back to bed tarted up, Colombian style.