A Relaxing Appointment
About one of those times when the best choice would be to just stay home instead.
The girl was smaller than me, with an elfin face and chestnut eyes. The tag on her black uniform said ‘Carly’. She smiled and greeted me, ushering me into a room with white walls, and light wood furniture; the bed was in the middle, and a small table and shelves, all bearing implements for the various treatments, lined the back wall. A chair, a rolling stool, and floral wall photography completed a scenario curated to exude relaxation and cleanliness. I have always loved beauty centres: they cost less than therapy, and I get to come out looking pretty, as opposed to a crying mess.
‘I’ll turn on the heating on the bed and get you a blanket; this place is always cooler on Monday mornings after being closed all Sunday.’ I appreciated Carly’s consideration; my body runs cold and laying on a cosy warm bed sounded like a great start of my first Monday off work. Although, thinking back on what was to come, it would have been cheaper and far less stressful to just stay in my bed.
Excited and still blissfully ignorant, I took off my shoes and placed my coat and purse on a chair. On a whim, I took the phone out of my purse and slid it in the front pocket of my jeans. The girl smiled at me, and we joked about people being unable to live without their phones, even when they know they won’t be able to use them. My eyes were going to be sealed shut for the next hour; I wouldn’t need or be able to use my phone.
I lay down on the bed; it was already pleasantly warm. Carly covered me with a plush beige blanket, then set about preparing me for my treatment.
‘Have you had a lash lift before?’ She enquired, taking photos of my eyes for a before and after reference.
‘I have,’ I replied, looking up and down according to her instructions, ‘last year, for my daughter’s wedding.’
‘Congratulations,’ chirped the girl. ‘Did it work well? Were you happy with the results?’ She was working on the table behind me; I could hear a familiar symphony of wrappers tearing, thin metal tools clattering, glass vials snapping open. Outside the room, other clients and beauticians puttered about, chatting and laughing. I felt more relaxed already.
‘I was, yes,’ I answered, ‘it was here, as a matter of fact. It was a different girl, I can’t quite recall her name. Tall, with long brown hair… She had big square glasses, I think…’ I paused.
‘Erica,’ replied Carly in a low voice. The silence hit me; everything was suddenly still. Was she done with the preparation already? Even the noise from the outside seemed somewhat muted.
‘Yes, Erica, that’s it,’ I confirmed, my voice sounding strange in the sudden quiet room.
‘She’s not here anymore,’ said Carly. ‘She… left a few months ago.’ After an awkward pause, she added, in a more cheerful tone: ‘it seems they forgot the music today. I’ll put on something relaxing soon. Close your eyes for me, please. You don’t have makeup on, do you?’
I obliged, and she dabbed my eye area with a fresh liquid, then tried on her rollers for size.
‘Last time, the girl… Erica, she commented that my lashes were quite short, so the curling might not be as visible,’ I volunteered in an apologetic tone. To my slightly embarrassing fawning attempt, Carly replied sternly:
‘It doesn’t really matter. You might not end up looking like a peacock, but your lashes should curl just fine.’
After taking care of the music, Carly returned to a tune of nature sounds, bells, and gongs, and began setting me up for my treatment with a ‘try to relax your eyes and look right in front of you.’
Good luck with that. My eyes have always been shaky; I couldn’t manage an eyeliner wing if my life depended on it. And that morning, I had woken up with dry, inflamed eyes, courtesy of way too much time spent looking at screens. I didn’t feel the need to tell Carly. I just sighed, got mentally ready that this was going to be less soothing than I would have wanted, and tried to focus on the music and warm bed.
As she placed tape under my eyes and the sticky pad on my lids, two women outside erupted in laughter.
I curled my mouth for a second. I knew that client’s voice.
We had arrived at the same time, right after opening. She was a middle-aged woman like me, wrapped in costly perfume, and adamant that she was first for the lash treatment. The poor receptionist, a young and flustered young woman, had apologised profusely to both of us. The other client’s appointment was marked on the calendar for the following Monday. The perfumed lady would have none of it. She was very busy. She had made room in her schedule especially for this appointment. She was a regular and deserved better treatment. I stood to the side, making feeble attempts at mediating and reassuring the receptionist that it was fine, these things happen. I was on the verge of just rescheduling myself when another beautician whose tag read ‘Gabriella’ finally managed to convince the client to settle for a bonus treatment for the day and keep her lash appointment. The lady and Gabriella were in the adjacent room, joking about the misunderstanding in a volume that even gongs and nature sounds struggled to drown.
‘Well, at least I tried to give you a pleasant soundtrack,’ joked Carly, only slightly sarcastic, as she curled eyelash after eyelash, and coated them in product. I tried to loosen up my body again despite the discomfort around my eyes. The voices next door were too low to be a distraction anymore. The music had settled into a somewhat droning rhythm as well. Part of me wondered whether I should just put on a true crime podcast through my earphones, but I didn’t want to be rude and drown out my own beautician’s voice as well.
‘I am going to leave it to set for ten minutes,’ said Carly. ‘A couple of lashes are trying to get unstuck; if so, I’ll fix them individually later.’ I nodded, then heard the sliding door open and close. Carly had left the room.
I shuffled slightly. My eyes were prickling all around, and my scalp was starting to send uncomfortable signals due to the bed’s heat. I was wondering how much longer I was going to be alone in the room, when my sliding door opened and closed again. No steps approached me, though. I tentatively called: ‘Carly?’ No answer. Then, my door slammed shut, the next sliding door flung open, and I heard the perfumed lady call: ‘Gabriella? Is that you?’ At that point, the music’s volume rose so high it startled me, and I could hear nothing else. The volume went back to normal after a couple of minutes that seemed like an eternity.
As I tried to make sense of what was happening, a sudden sharp noise startled me again, to the point that my body jumped while lying down. The speakers were now spreading a discordant, jagged tune, with chants that resembled a hundred forks dragged across the bottom of a stainless steel pot. My skin broke out in goosebumps, and all my muscles tensed. Under this cacophony, I heard what sounded like a muffled cry, then someone talking animatedly, and then a chill pop cover replaced the dreadful chants. Under the melody, animated whispers among which I could only distinguish Carly’s voice saying: ‘Don’t blame me, you set this up, I just pressed play.’ Someone replied in a hiss which I couldn’t make out.
My whole body was shaking, and I had no idea why. Some of my lashes had definitely come undone. I began taking deep breaths, trying to relax my muscles one by one. Then, a robotic voice asked, ‘How can I help you?’, and I realised I had my phone in my hand, the top half of my body having thrashed out of the blanket. Some primal instinct had kicked in, pushing me to call… but whom and for what reason? I clicked the side button to silence my vocal assistant before it could scare me again.
That’s when I heard my sliding door open and close again, and Carly stepped in, huffing ‘I’m so sorry, this Monday morning has been quite a handful…’, stopped for a second, then rushed to me. ‘Oh my, are you okay? Did you…’ she fell silent, probably looking at the phone in my hand. Up close, I could hear her shallow breathing. ‘Were you trying to call someone?’ she pressed, a hint of panic in her voice.
Silence fell. My voice has wedged itself deep in my throat. Unable to speak, I groped around to lift my blanket. That seemed to snap Carly back into work mode, because she took it from my hands with a slightly more cheerful ‘Oh no, let me do this,’ and she covered me up. My phone went back inside its pocket. I was once again lying down, my eyes glued shut, my one link to the outside world useless.
Then, I froze, feeling her hands cup the sides of my face.
‘A few lashes have come undone on the left eye, let me fix this,’ she murmured.
‘I’m sorry,’ I blurted out in a high-pitched voice. ‘I can’t seem to keep my eyelids still.’
‘It’s okay,’ replied Carly, but her voice too was slightly shrill, ‘it’s none of your fault.’
Her hands touched my face again, and I flinched.
‘Just take deep breaths and relax,’ cooed Carly, in a calmer tone, ‘I know it is unpleasant, but it will only take a minute.’ Immediately after that, her tools were once again at work on my lashes. My body slumped on the bed, resigned and exhausted. Carly must have taken that for relaxation, because she said: ‘Good, just like that. Gosh, these lashes are such rebels. I’ll have to show them who’s boss.’ I tried to laugh along, choked, and gave up.
And then it was over. Carly carefully rinsed the product off my eyes and removed the tape and pad. She then showed me the results in the mirror, with a small frown. ‘I hoped we could get something more out of them,’ she mused, ‘I can get you a discount coupon to come back in two weeks and try again, if you wish.’
‘Oh no,’ I blurted out. She turned to me with raised eyebrows. ‘No need,’ I scrambled, ‘I love them.’
‘Are you sure you’re satisfied?’ Insisted Carly. ‘Let’s check the before pictures.’
She took her phone from the table and started scrolling photos in front of me. Left eye from the side, right eye from the side, eyes from the front, bloodstains on the floor, eyes looking down… bloodstains on the floor?
‘Sorry about that,’ muttered Carly, ‘a new colleague dropped some dye on the floor, and I need to scold her. She should know better.’
‘It’s okay,’ I hastily replied in the steadiest voice I could find. ‘I’m happy with the lashes, really.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ she shrugged and smiled. ‘Have a good rest of the day, then!’
‘You too,’ I emphatically replied, scrambling to put on my shoes, jacket and purse all at the same time. With a final ‘Thank you!’, I rushed out to the lobby, almost bumping into Gabriella leaving the room next to mine, where the rude client had been. ‘I’m sorry!’ I shrieked raising my hands in front of her shocked face. My eyes fell in the room: a huge bundle of sheets and towels by the door, the bed completely stripped, and no client. Had the insufferable lady left before me?
I rushed to pay and leave. The receptionist handed me the receipt with a complimentary coupon and an invitation to come back soon. I drove home like a crazy person and threw the coupon in the bin. My family then proceeded to ban me from true crime podcasts for at least a month, since I was clearly becoming paranoid. It took me years to muster up the courage to return to a beauty centre. In the meantime, I had to bite the bullet and go to therapy, with frustratingly similar results. But that is a story for another time.
Writing musings and news
It appears that lately I enjoy making things difficult for myself. First with child protagonists, now with a sort-of-kind-of wannabe… thriller? Horror? I’m not sure.
All I know is that I was inspired by the lack of power in this marvel of modern aesthetic that is a lash treatment. You are lying down on a bed in a place you don’t know, surrounded by strangers manipulating one of the most delicate parts of the human body, and you can’t see or move at all for an hour or more. Anything could happen to you, or around you.
Aside from this weird short, August has been an interesting month, full of preparations and ideas being born. Hopefully Autumn will be the season where all of these ideas and preparations bear fruit.
Stay tuned to find out!
Necessary disclaimer: before any murderous (or just annoyed) beautician comes after me, I don’t mean to put anyone off lashes or any other treatment. This story is just the result of an overactive imagination. And, honestly, the lady deserved it. Assuming something really happened to her, of course…
So glad to see this creepy and inventive story make its way into the world! Also love the art you created to go along with it 😂❤️