Buried alive...

I’ve never been one of those high-maintenance girls who spends half her salary on make-up and pampering, but I do love the odd treat, like anyone. All that kind of stuff is cheap here in Singapore, so when my visitors arrived they were keen to take advantage. A pedicure and manicure later, we were really getting into this pampering lark, and someone suggested a facial… Ahhh, lush, I thought. Just imagine lying in a dark room with cucumber on your eyes and gentle music…

A door slams in the distance and footsteps move along a corridor behind my head. I hear muffled voices, and two people laughing. The sounds drift away and I’m alone again in my head. My heart is beating fast under the blanket and the temperature is rising. I try to relax and think calm thoughts, but I’m overwhelmed. I can’t see anything; my eyes and mouth are sealed shut. Two small holes have been left for my nose, and as I reach my hand up to my face I realise that the weight on my face is two inches thick. The hardening mass reaches from my forehead to the top of my ribcage, and it’s hot, not just warm, but hot. This was meant to be relaxing, so why do I feel like I’m a prisoner? I try to be brave but all I keep thinking is “I’m being buried alive and paying for the privilege”. Twenty minutes later I’m set free, and walking outside to meet my aunt at a café I start to cry… was this what they meant when they said “pain is beauty?” If so I’d rather be ugly.