fruitybeauty

Fruity and the tale of the manbrows.

Once upon a time a friend very quietly asked Fruity if she may be able to recommend a waxer.

Of course, she said, hurling her wondeful waxer's number at him. (Yes, him, because men need waxing too. Women aren't the only ones with lymph nodes and organs that need warmth and protection.)

And then Fruity took a gamble. She emailed her friend again and suggested that maybe, and she sincerely hoped no offence would be taken, because you know, a good friend looks out for good friends, and honestly and sincerely want them to look their very best at all times, even if that means trudging through moments of extreme and violent awkwardness, she suggested that maybe, maybe he might like to ask her to tidy up his brows, just a teeeeeny bit.

A teeeeny tiny bit that wouldn't be noticed by anyone, and yet everyone would notice something, because his face would look somehow more handsome. And that men shouldn't be afraid to ask for a very subtle clean up if they have wild brows, because their brows won't look feminine and over-manicured, no, not by a long shot no, just neater and more handsome.

And he laughed at Fruity and said he usually did get them done and was going to anyway and then Fruity felt like a tool but when she saw his brows after they were done and saw what a magnificent little change they made, she felt less tool-like and more excellent-like because even if it weren't her idea, he now looked great and that made her felt great.

And they all lived happily ever after.

The end.

Three little things that make an OK facial, an excellent facial

1. The therapist asks if she may touch your bosom area, before diving down there to knead your chest and boobies. I'm no prude, but it can be very, uh, confronting to have someone leaning over you, standing behind your head, their boobs in your basically in your mouth, massaging your décolletage.

2. The therapist makes absolute certain you have no mascara or eye makeup underneath your eyes before you walk out. I can't stress how crucial this is, as if the remnants of your eye liner, shadow or CoverGirl LashExact are left laying around after a facial, it completely ruins the entire 'I've just had a facial, don't I look glowy, and fresh and AMAZING?' thing that is so vital for women after having laid out cash and time to improve their face.

3. The therapist makes sure you are lovely and warm at all times. She should keep asking, and if she doesn't, always, ALWAYS speak up and ask for another blanket or towel. Aside of APEC, there is nothing worse than laying down for a relaxing, peaceful body or face treatment and being so cold all you can focus on is whether or not you should ask for another blanket or can the therapist turn up the heating, or perhaps remove the polar ice cap from the back of the room.

There are others, but these came to mind today, as I'm off to have a facial at a place I've never been to before, and I guess I am am throwing out these tips to the universe, in the hope that they hear them and know them, although for all this Facial Snob knows, they've already got a fire burning in my treatment room, an industrial size makeup-remover at the ready, and a therapist who never touches the mams without a permission slip.

The Killer Brazilian: Less a B-Grade horror flick; more a waxing reality.

Home ill with That Cold, today.
You know the cold I mean, 'cause you've already had it, and for all I know, YOU GAVE IT TO ME.

Anyway, I don't much feel like being funny/clever/bloggy, but felt I had to share with you this horror wax story that a fellow beauty editor, Shones, emailed me. (Thanks Shones.)

It's not the first gnarly waxing tale I've heard; there are so many nasty, nasty unfair things that can happen if the hygiene or waxing capabilities of the waxer is rubbish. Bad things. Life-threatening things. Amputation things.

So let this be a lesson that a cheap, quick wax is never worth it. Spend 20 clams more and get it done right.
Let this also be a lesson that if you feel the girl doing you is doing it wrong, (it's hurting, she's shaking and sweating and praying under her breath) speak up and ask for the manager to take over. Alternatively, simply slap her on the forehead, put your clothes back on and leave.

(If anyone wants the number for my waxer, who is The Best Waxer in The Universe, email me.)

When Botox and sweat glands collide.

This man is not Boyfriend. This is Random Man.

But like Random Man, Boyfriend had a serious sweating issue.
Every time he got nervous, gosh, them pits would POUR.

So there he is right, ready to go out, all styled up, wearing expensive clothes made by our Italian friends, shiny shoes with boxy toes, looking slicker than a rat with a gold tooth.

Just before he pulls up to the party/wedding/bar, the patches would appear. By the time he'd walk inside, nervous and anxious because crowds can do that to people sometimes, they'd be dotting up the middle of his back; they'd be centre stage on his chest, but mostly, they'd be under the arms. Pools of dark damp, ruining the shirt and effectively his evening.

He took to standing in corners.

He wore certain colours and prints (not Hawaiian, thank you) that he knew wouldn't show the sweat patches so much.

He'd go to the bathroom and stand in a toilet with folded toilet paper under each arm telling his sweat glands to pull their head in so he could enjoy his night.

But it didn't matter. The boy would still sweat.

"Should get some Botox in your pits" I said nonchalantly one day as I ate a sandwich and he explained his ongoing saga.

"Why? Botox why?" His voice was irritable, his eyes hopeless and disbelieving.

"Cause it blocks the sweat glands from producing sweat. I know people that get it on their palms, too. Can you please pass the juice?"

"What do you mean it stops the sweat glands?" His eyes were crazed, his voice was sharp, and I was getting thirstier by the second.

"I mean what I said. You should get it. Costs nearly a grand, but I think it lasts nearly a year. Juice please?"

"So they insert needles of Botox under my arms, and I simply don't sweat anymore? Really?"

"YES. JUICE. NOW."

And off he went to The Clinic in Bondi Junction. And they shaved under his arms and put in lots and lots of needles (which is why it cost $900) and he stopped sweating under there. And that was two years ago. (He goes back about every 10 months for more.) And now he never ever sweats and can wear even grey t-shirts on the hottest of days without a slither of fear.

He said I could write "It literally changed my life" but I said don't be lame, that's so Good Morning Australia.

No more facial hair.

When one has a facial, as I was extraordinarily lucky and able to enjoy yesterday at the La Prairie beauty room at DJs Elizabeth St store (can't tell you what they were launching til May. But it's FRUITIN' unbelievable, as was my skin/eyes/general sense of happiness and wellbeing, post-treatment) anyway, so the facial, yes, the facial... oh yes, the facial, when one has a facial, one is very, very likely to come out of said facial with facial hair.

Not this brand of facial hair.




The other kind. The kind Steph, the fabulous and always superbly-shod beauty maven of Madison magazine, and I discussed yesterday, the one you pretty much definitely will get whenever you get a facial, anywhere, ever. The one that ultimately ruins your appearance for the rest of the day, or until you wash that sleazy, greasy hair of yours.

Sing if you know the words: Oily roots, misbehaving hair and nasty lankness that WILL NOT GO AWAY, no matter how much emergency blow-drying, hair brushing and strenuous styling you attempt.

I didn't get any facial hair, partly because I had a brilliant, very-precise beautician, Rita, but partly because I know the rules of Facial Hair Avoidance.

The rules of Facial Hair Avoidance.

FYI: Your best reactive chance is to spray in dry shampoo and backcomb the roots a little and force your hair back into a messy, sexy, posh pony, or use the dry 'poo and then change your part (freshens the hair immediately).

Your best PROactive chance is to:

Do this: Take a bobby pin and a hair band, and get that hair into a low pony, and get that fringe well, well away.

Say this: "Hiii... um, I've actually got to go to lunch/dinner/a date/a job interview/my wedding after this, and so I was hoping to keep my hair fresh? Is it possible for you to pop a head band on? Thanks sooo much. I really appreciate it. So sorry to be a pain in the ass."

Why you need to say that, and in that kiss-assy way: Most therapists are very good at what they do. They are trained, and they don't like to be told how to do their thing.Which is fair - do they come in and tell you how to taste your ice cream? (Look, I know you're an ice cream taster. Don't be ashamed. It's okay. Your mum told me.)

Most facials involve massage, which invariably means Belinda from Bayside Beauty will lovingly blend beautiful products, usually oils, into your face, chest, neck and possibly even scalp. The scalp means hair, and that you don't want, so tell her. And by doing this in a sweet, non passive-aggressive manner, (watch your tone, sugar: if she thinks your being patronising, you're screwed, Oily McSpoily) she will take extra care to avoid ruining your mop, while still endeavoring to give you the best dingin' hydrating bliss facial you've ever known.

And that's nice, I think.

Of course, if you can book your facial at the end of the day when you can just roll home and not even think about makeup or social activity, more clever you. Ah, yes. The greasiest of hair, and you just don' care.

Should attractive young men be allowed to massage? Discuss.

Yesterday, I had a massage at a Very High Profile and Posh day spa in Sydney, Spa Chakra.

So imagine my shock/surprise/delight when I saw a strapping young lad waiting for me to de-robe in the treatment room. 'Golly' I thought. 'Golly gosh balls!' And that was as far as my mind took me at that stage. But once the massage started, it suddenly leapt to 6th gear. Which is kind of not so cool when you're trying to relax.

Here's what I surmised about having a Rather Hot Dude give you a massage:

Pros:

A Rather Hot Dude is giving you a massage.

Cons:

You can hardly breathe for all the thinking you're doing.

When he massages your feet, you don't enjoy the tension release, instead you think of your dry heels and fake tan soles.

You cringe knowing when he kneads your upper thigh, he's getting a big ol' bag of cellulite all up in his face.

You remember you didn't shave your 'pits properly.

You realise you haven't shaved your legs for 13 days.

As you lie on your stomach, and he uncovers one leg and doubles the towel up on the other you wonder, should you spread your legs a little more, as you do when it's a Lady Massage, so as to give more access to the leg being dealt with? Or is that inappropriate? Hang on, did I just say ACCESS? Fruity! Keep it together! No gutter words! No gutter thoughts! This is difficult enough as it is!

In summation:

Like a tequila shot at 3.14am, it's one of those things that appears to be a Good Thing, but definitely, absolutely is not. (Unless you're a super-confident minx and love this shit, in which case: A. Go You. B. Teach us, master. ) Way too stressful. Because you're essentially nude (and of course you'll be wearing your worst undies) it's a little like the first time you, y'know, do it with a dude, only YOU DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE GOING TO BE DOING IT. So you never got to do all that prep that accompanies it.

Sure, the idea is tasty, but the reality morphs you into a self-conscious, body-aware fool, who twitches every time his hands wander even remotely near your buttock region, and who giggles like a 12-year old when asked if 'That pressure okay?'

I'm sorry, Sir Soft Hands, but give me Rina, the 45-year old Russian woman, any day: I want to switch off from thinking about my flaws when I'm having a massage.

Curious, I asked him at the end: Do women ever see you and freak it, and race back to reception and ask for a Lady Massage?
All the time, he said.
Ahhh, I thought internally. I'm not quite as vain and silly as I thought.

But what about you, fruits?
Do you like a man-massage ? Or does it send you silly?

Bad waxer. BAD waxer!

I have a waxer, Natasha. She is one of, I'd say, oooh, the Top Five Humans in the world. She's Russian, she's incredibly sweet and adorable and beautiful and basically the kind of woman you want to hug for a solid 15 seconds when you say goodbye, and not just air-kiss.

Oh, and she's a superb waxer. Gentle. Efficient. Talks to distract you. Doesn't put you on all fours. Uses expensive wax. Rips off real fast. Tweezes potential ingrowns. Uses a high-frequency* when she's done and dusted. (Literally - she sweeps over talc at the end.)

In all, she's brilliant. I've palmed her off to several beauty editors, mag editors and mag minxes and they're all very happy with her. And they be a tough crowd. Plus, I've never had an ingrown in all my time with her. (The muppet I let pour hot wax on my body, before Queen Natasha, had a spectacular knack for creating grouped ingrowns.) She always tells me to exfoliate, but I never even need to with her.

She's also gives The Best Facials. But that's another post. Email me for her number if you live in Sydney.

Anyway. So there's Natasha, and her lovely pink, gentle wax, and there's the Emergency Wax I had in Byron.

EMERGENCY WAXES ARE AWFUL. By law they must be. It was written somewhere... once.

Emergency Wax: Your boyfriend's coming home early. You didn't have time to see Natasha before you went away. You've suddenly been told you'll be swimming this weekend. You've decided to enter a Miss Paradise Swimsuit Comp. All of these reasons and more lead to an Emergency Wax. Which is when you don't know where to go, but you do know you need waxing. So you go anywhere.

Miss Waxer herself was cheerful, brisk and wore too much perfume. Her technique was strange - she told me knowingly it was 'the only way' to do it, whe we all know every waxer has their own way. And she did that thing where she gave me 4 seconds to get changed, before barging in. And then she used a teacher voice - "Aaaand just move your knee up. Yep, up. Just UP like this." *Wrench* - which made me feel like a moron for not knowing which way to place my legs, or position my undies. What she was doing of course, was assuming a Boss Lady power personality, just because I was in an extraordinarily vulnerable position. This is not cool. Don't like that.

Also don't like noticing burns on my skin a day later.
And then getting a succession of ingrowns.

Now, this is a pretty unsavoury post, I'm aware of that.
But DAMMIT. This Bad Waxer and her cronies must not be allowed to roam free!
You're removing hair, woman! Please, for the love of cauliflower, DO IT RIGHT!

Now I know I've been spoiled with Natasha. I really have. Still, for this monkey to ruin all of Natasha's good work in one painful rip...

But enough about me.
What do YOU hate about Bad Waxers?

*High-frequency is a small, pen-like device used in salons that emits a small electronic frequency, and zaps bacterica so you don't get ingrowns. It's also used on the mug to clear up acne. It not hurt. It friend.

Finally.

The picture loaded.

Lucky. Poor Janine's been crouched over for hours waiting for that to work.

I get six weeks of perfect polish. Gel-ous?

Ah, pundamonium.

I gibber to mates/fellow employees/bus drivers so much about my gels, that i thought i should tell you about them too. You'll thank me, honestly.

Maybe you won't send me a bunch of flowers, but you will definitely be grateful.

They are: Bio-sculpture gels. (www.biosculpture.com.au)

They give me: Low-maintenance nails. For toes, I get six weeks of perfect, shiny nail colour with NO CHIPS (not even salt and vinegar). Fingy's are lucky to crack three weeks cause we type with them and open envelopes with them and dig for buried treasure with them. I choose to gel my toes only for this reason.

They come in: About a billion colour choices AND you can paint over them with your own colour and then remove it again without damaging the gel's colour or intensity at all. Your gels just sit there, all smiley and shiny, patiently waiting for a more substantial pair of footwear than a slab of Brazilian rubber masquerading as a shoe.

They cost: It depends on your salon - 'Chezza's Nail Trends' may be cheaper than 'Harmony Spa', for instance - but maybe around 70 clams and then 50 for maintenance ( an infill and re-paint thingy) every 6 weeks-ish.

They are: The single best thing someone who was previously getting fortnightly pedicures could stumble upon.

They are definitely not: Acrylics. At all. They don't stink, they get painted on like polish, and this particular brand of gels doesn't trash your nails at all. In fact your claws get even stronger underneath the gels. If you wear acrylics, may I suggest making the transistion to these babies. In fact, if you wear acrylics, as I have never tried them, can you tell me: Is it true that acrylics ruin your nails? Or is that an urban myth, like elves, and South Australia.

They make me: Smile. A lot.

Here is: Janine from Bio-sculpture HQ giving me my eye-hurty bright mandariny nails. You can't see it in this picture, but she's kind of awesome.

That's annoying: The image won't load.

Who's a naughty blog host: Typepad.

Madge2O.

"I love the treatment and so does my face," says Madonna of the O2 Intraceuticals 'oxygen facial', a facial in which a hydrating serum full of vitamins and antioxidants are infused into your face by a small oxygen pump thingy. (www.intraceuticals.com.au)

Kay cool, Madge. I guess you must if you have three of these oxygen machines in your home and insist on a treatment before every show/shoot/schlep down to the shops to buy milk.

"I had the treatment yesterday and, well, my face looks kind of fresh" is all I can offer at this stage, but if I sang Like A Virgin and was in A League of Their Own married Guy Richie and wrote children's books and got around in Gucci bomber jackets and spandex leotards, then you may take more notice of my opinion.







In any case, after getting smacked in the face with a fist full of dry skin (So I slacked off a bit with my post-flight rehydration program; YOU WANNA MAKE SOMETHING OF IT?) a trial of this facial, offered by the People Who Invented It yesterday, was muchos welcomus.

I said: But how can oxygen on the skin do anything - don't you need to, y'know, inhale it from a gas mask to get the effects? Like when you've got a filthy hangover and your friend is a nurse and you slip into her work and have a few blasts of the good stuff, not that you would ever do that, of course.

They said: Aha, but we're infusing it into the dermis layer of the skin (below the epidermis) with our hyperbaric oxygen technology, aren't we? ... And you know what sweetart, if you're going to be all provocative, why don't you just shut your cake hole and try it and THEN tell us it doesn't do anything?

Or something like that.

Anyway.

So I did try it. And yes, my skin looks plumper, and fresher, and those adorable laugh lines we all love, and would never try to get rid of because we think they make us totally look young and sexy, are less visible. Which is why i'm writing about it.

I reckon it'd be best utlised if you needed to look super-totally-excellent one day.
So, maybe try it if:

• You're getting married (no one throws garters anymore so don't for a second think you can)
• It's your birthday party tonight and YOU WILL LOOK AMAZING AT ANY COST
• You're off to the Oscars (unlikely)