A beauty therapist friend of mine recently told me she was thinking of adding a new service called a vagacial to her range of exotic treatments. Strangely, I read about this new craze, with incredulity, about a year or so ago in the Sunday Times Style magazine. This glossy supplement, aimed squarely at women, is always worth a peek if only to read the wonderful Mrs Mills, probably the least sensitive and, as a consequence, the funniest “agony aunt” in publication today. That’s my excuse anyway and it’s the best I have.
Apparently, a vagacial is a facial for…well surely I do not need to explain any further? Unsurprisingly, the concept originated in the United States – surprise, surprise – where it seems that there is a direct relationship between loads of money and no brains. I suppose with the beauty industry having explored most bits of the body it was only a matter of time before the final frontier. To boldly go where no man…or woman…has gone before?
Look at my Conkers!
Now I have to confess that I do love a monthly scrub-down myself – above the neck that is. After all we should all do what we can to slow down the inevitable ageing process; equally I have never considered that my nether regions would benefit greatly from a bit of rough soaping and a buff-up. It’s not as if you would want to wander into the showers at the gym and say “look at these two shiny beauties!” That was okay years ago at school with your prized conkers but not now. So I have to admit I am puzzled as to why any woman would actually want to confess to her mates that she had been for a vagacial.
Apparently, having established itself in London – note similarity to the States – women all over the country are now seeking out this not inexpensive treatment when surely hubby could do this during the half-time break with a bit of sunflower oil and a hand cooled naturally by his can of lager? What a bonus in these pressured, austere times to not only watch the match but also get a half-time fiddle; I bet the divorce rate would plummet.
There’s more though as, apparently, you can also get a vagazzle which, I am told, necessitates the insertion of gems and studs in the shape of a heart or a star around the intended area. I suggested they could develop one based on a crab but clearly that lacks commercial appeal.
Paint Me Down
I looked both terms up on Wikipedia and no mention of either. For research purposes I even volunteered as an unpaid assistant at the salon but they have yet to reply to my application. What next? Go to the gym and I reckon that over half the women there have some tattoo splattered over various bodily parts.
Men are just as bad. I played cricket with a guy – you know who you are – who had had his tadger pierced and ringed – now that simply cannot be right. Who are you going to show it to that will not think you are a complete weirdo?
Take those henna monstrosities beloved of the Beckham-wannabe’s; won’t they look good in a few years? I saw a young lad with a verse written across his ribs the other night and could not help but wonder how good that will look enlarged by a few years of lager and take-outs. Some look no better than walking murals
It seems to me that there is no limit to the desire for people to be either painted, mutilated or both by somebody claiming to have something to do with beauty in the process paying them a small fortune. Growing up we bought bubble gum with lick-on tattoos; to most it was obvious why they also licked-off.
So if you are really thinking of letting some colour blind, O-level Art reject get to work on you with that inky needle take a tip. Go find a few old photos, look hard at what you were wearing and ask yourself would you choose the same outfit today? I doubt it.
Leave a Reply