Sugar!

'Full body?', asks the receptionist when I call the beauty salon to arrange a waxing appointment, and I've got to admit, I'm a little taken aback. Can a person sound hairy over the phone? Or is this just standard practise for Arab women? Of that I'm not sure, but I am sure that I'm not game. 'Er, legs and underarm?', I reply, waiting for her to take offence, but instead she says '2:30, OK?', I agree, and we're all set. It may be the middle of winter, but a girls still got to take care of herself, right?

I arrive at Abdoun circle at 2:36pm, thanks to a few too many punches of the snooze button and misunderstanding with the taxi driver. Miraculously, Essentials Beauty Salon is easy to locate, and I make my way up the stairs. The receptionist introduces me to Alia, a short rotund Arab woman whose top lip is red with anger that its friend the 'lady-tache' has (quite recently I'd guess) been cruelly ripped away. Alia will be my beauty therapist, and she motions towards a room down the corridor. There is relaxing music playing, a couple of goldfish swimming round a vase that has two white lilies poking out of it. All in all, I'm right in my comfort zone, and something about that doesn't feel right. Alia has disappeared, so I turn back to the receptionist and say ' Is sugaring OK?' to which she nods vigourously and says, 'Yes, yes, this we can do'. And there it is. The rush of panic. Adrenaline. I've got no idea what this 'sugaring' is. I mean, its a method of epilation, obviously. But apart from the traumatising account I read as a teenager, in Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia, I've had no experience of it what so ever. The unknown beckons, tantalisingly.

I lie down on the table in my ill fitting gown and Alia bursts through the door, squeezing a ball of sticky golden goo in her right hand. 'You want sugaring, yes?'. And I nod, wide eyed. Alia takes a quick look at my bare legs, then sets too, smoothing the goop on, then quickly peeling it back, repeating this action again and again. It's an odd sensation, not unlike waxing, but her motions are short, swift and ruthless. There's no spatula or cotton strips between the two bodies in the room. It's somehow more intimate.

Alia speaks good English. She's observant, and, you could say, pretty blunt. 'You have ingrown hairs' she tells me. I smile and try to shrug it off. 'And a lot of dead skin'. She shoves the ball of goo in my face, 'See? You need Turkish Bath. Steam, scrubbing. Good for you'. I'm getting a lecture. 'Once a month, after period. Turkish bath, sugaring.' Suddenly I wonder if this is an aesthetic value or a religious imposition. Either way I figure it's not a good time to mention that thanks to contraception, monthly periods are a thing of the past.

She takes a look under my arms. ' Different lengths', she says, suspiciously. 'Shaving?' she accuses. 'Sometimes', I admit, and she rolls her eyes. 'Break off the hair. Not good'. She shows no mercy as she attacks them.

It's over so quickly. I have shared nothing other than my nationality and my personal space but this woman and I have taken part in something intimate, a ritual older than both our religions.

I hop off the table, holding up the flimsy gown.

'Next month Turkish bath then sugaring. OK?' says Alia sternly, as I exit the room.

And I dare not disobey.