Perils of visiting a unisex salon

In Dubai, where I grew up, the concept of unisex salons can still evoke a few gasps. In a women’s parlour, even opening the door to a guy’s at the other end can make some women raise their perfectly-plucked eyebrows.

And if it’s a matter of letting in a male electrician or plumber, a quick poll must be taken. “Alright to let him in, ladies?” an employee would ask, with an out-of-control facial steamer menacingly spewing hot water in the background. And invariably, someone would say, “No”.

When I shifted to Mumbai some months ago, one of the first things that I set out to do was find a ladies parlour that suited me. But after incidents of ruined eyebrows, burnt skin and public outbursts at various ladies’ parlours, a friend advised me to head to a unisex (a strange name for a parlour that caters to both sexes) salon that was renowned to be the best in the area.

“Subscribe to Cosmo,” snickered a friend back in Dubai as I expressed my consternation. “Read their do-it-at-home articles.” I ended the call with a curt, “I am not a quitter”.

Once at the unisex parlour, a lady at its over-crowded lobby asked me what I wanted to do. “Erm, a clean-up and a pedicure,” I said in a very low whisper. Looking suspiciously at me, she assigned the task to someone and turned her attention to the next client.

Once inside the treatment room, I changed into a cotton dress (think ‘revealing’). As the beautician massaged my face, I allowed myself to relax and visualise the glowing skin that I was promised in 45 minutes. But ten minutes into my elaborate dream sequence, a man opened the door, asking for some wax. Hearing him, I squealed, holding a towel like a shield. The man gave me a startled look and made a quick exit, minus the wax. “Sorry,” I muttered to my beautician, with as much dignity as one with green goo spread on the face could.

Later, I headed towards a chair and sunk my feet into a tub of warm water, ready for the pedicure. Nearby, a heartbreakingly handsome man was getting a pedicure done too. My pedicurist sat by my feet and gave a loud gasp.

“You have such brittle nails!” she screeched. To my utter horror, she hollered to the man who was scrubbing Mr Brad Pitt’s feet and pointed to my nails, repeating the remark. “And what is this mark?” she continued, a decibel higher. This time, even Pitt looked over. “It’s ... a shoe bite,” I stuttered. “Arrey, maintain yourself well,” she said, fiercely scrubbing my feet. She continued to comment on every nail and cuticle for the entire salon’s benefit, whilst I fumed. Citing a non-existent dental appointment, I cut the pedicure short and went home, deep in thought.

That evening, a friend came home. “Hey,” she said, alarmed as I opened the door. “Why does your living room look like it threw up a decade’s issues of Cosmopolitan?”