I’m weird. I don’t like facials.

Which is why I only have them irregularly. But the air in Johannesburg is so dry this time of the year that my skin feels tight, sore, sensitive – exactly in need of lashings of creams and oils and pampering.

I walked into the therapy room with freshly washed hair and self, and after ministrations, sudsy latherings, mask painting, swirling rich serum applications, intermittent shoulder rubs, I emerged with skin plumped and hair dripping in creams!

That’s it. That’s when I’m freaked out. Walking out the salon looking freakish, feeling awful. My daughter said – ignore the sticky-strange hair, just don’t wash you face, give the creams time to penetrate deeply.

Purgatory, I thought. I’ve arrived in purgatory!