Saturday morning found me at the beauty parlour for a facial. While I was waiting at the reception, I noticed a big banana-yellow sarcophagus standing upright in an alcove. It looked new and shiny, with Brazil! written above a picture of a topless Brazilian carnival dancer (that’s not going to harm my google ranking, is it?). Concetta, the boss, explained that it was a “golden shower” (maybe not in English, Concetta) for an all-over sun-free tan. Apparently it’s the thing for those who care about tanning (see FAQs here; helpfully plagiarized here).
What struck me was the tanning booth’s close resemblance to Woody Allen’s infamous orgasmatron. Perhaps it has a dual setting…
Enough… my facial.
Arriva la tortura!
I think there comes a point where you think that never should so much attention be paid to your face. It just seems so excessively obsessive. It also seems to operate like some kind of punish/reward mechanism: first cool creams, then scalding vapour; first excruciating squeezing, then a soothing massage. The massage seemed to be a Sisyphean struggle, fighting against the inevitable, smoothing away wrinkles on my forehead and flooping the loose skin upwards. Give it up, girl: gravity gets us all in the end.
E fini la tortura!
Well she may have stopped squeezing at this point but I was still suffering from exposure to Enya. Why do I hate this music? Where to begin? The slurpy strings, the numbing predictable tweeness of the Oirishness, her voice – whiney, tremulous, waif-like frailty, faux sincere, faux hesitancy, it’s all so false! Devoid of any soul. Where’s the rousing spirit of the Chieftains or the purity of Sandy Denny?
The production is just awful. It’s as if on their mixer, in the place of a quantize button, there’s a big beige button marked “blandize”. They kept pressing it until every trace of human feeling had been wiped out. And that’s how I felt after an hour of listening to Enya.