La douleur est le poison de la beauté

Louis Catorze is continuing to be “not very well” yet, curiously, he appears to be well enough to do all manner of idiotic things that unwell individuals should be neither able nor inclined to do.

A few days ago we had a visit from the beautician. This was, at the time, within the permitted guidelines for tradespeople who can’t do their jobs from home, and we were both fully masked up throughout the treatment, bien sûr. Now, of course, things are different because we go into Tier 3 this morning, and this means she is among the non-essential services who can’t operate at all. At least I think that’s the case. Nobody exactly knows.

Anyway, as you are aware, Catorze and the beautician get along very well, but this friendship was born from somewhat, erm, troubled beginnings. The first time they met, there was an incident* which would have put most people off ever returning here again, but they have worked through this and are now the best of buddies.

* https://louiscatorze.com/2018/03/23/une-vision-de-la-beaute/

When the beautician arrived, she went straight upstairs to get ready whilst fetched her a glass of water. And, as followed, I could hear feline screaming, the like of which I have never heard before, interspersed with laughter.

It turned out that they were just saying hello, because it had been a while since they last saw one another (pre-Lockdown 2.0). During my leg wax, Catorze happily pitter-pattered around, up-tailed and chirping, sniffing at the beautician’s bag and generally being interested in what was going on. However, Catorze being Catorze, he really did pick his moment – when the more, erm, personal waxing began – to stop being all cute and kittenish and to start being downright embarrassing and creepy.

Lying in your pants, with one leg pointing east and the other west, whilst a masked, gloved stranger smears hot wax on your lower portions, is already awkward beyond words (and I am wincing at the fact that my mum will read this). But having a vampire-toothed cat sitting right next to your head and screaming in your face throughout the proceedings adds a new level of awkwardness that I have never experienced before (apart from the last time Catorze did this). Ok, so it took my mind off the pain but, dear God, the embarrassment.

Luckily the next time I see the beautician will be sometime in the new year. I was going to add “ … by which time she will have forgotten all about this” but she won’t. Nobody in their right mind possibly could. This kind of thing is standard Catorze, so much so that it would almost be weirder if he behaved himself.

Here he is, right up in my face during my treatment, taking a brief break in between screams:

“You’ve missed a bit, mon amie.”

La beauté gagne quelquefois à être regardée de loin

If a cat were to, erm, accidentally get hair-removing wax and baby oil on their fur, they would be ok, wouldn’t they? I’m asking on behalf of a friend.

I don’t suppose I need to explain what happened during the beautician’s visit, so I will let your imagination paint that picture on its own. And it turns out that the only way to painlessly remove salon wax is to dab the affected area with baby oil.

As you can imagine, Sa Maj wasn’t a fan of that. The little sod took off and dived under the bed with the wax only part-removed, refusing to come out. And, when I caught sight of him trying to groom it off much later, he had somehow managed to form the remaining wax and the stuck fur into a sort of pointy, greasy dreadlock on his leg.

Cat Daddy said it was my fault and that I should never have let him come in during the treatment although, had I shut him out of the room, his screaming outside the door would have sent me over the edge. In the meantime, as I write this, he is in his igloo and I daren’t attempt to check him in case the wax has made him stick to the inside. I have horrible (yet also a bit funny) visions of hearing a ripping sound as I shake him out and having him tumble undignifiedly at my feet with one bald leg.

I guess that, once the greasy leg-dreadlock has hardened, I will have to cut it off. Wrestling an oily animal who is freakishly strong when angry, with a pair of scissors in my hand: what could possibly go wrong?