I'm generally happy enough to make smalltalk. It passes the time, makes people feel more comfortable in forced social situations and gives me endless opportunities to regale strangers with Walter Mitty esque tales of my adventures without having to worry that I'll be found out (who doesn't tell extravagant lies to taxi drivers?). But I hate making smalltalk when in front of a mirror; at the hairdresser's, say, or in the beautician's. Because I can see the lies tripping off my tongue and I redden instantly. I've discovered that I can manage the hairdresser's by pretending to be engrossed in the latest glossy magazine (okay, it's not entirely pretending. Grandad will be disgusted but I too have a morbid fascination with shiny useless objects... WWTDD is often the highlight of my day). The beautician's, however, poses a problem. They have big mirrors fixed on each wall of the treatment room which means that when you go for a bikini wax (like I did this morning) you get a wonderful view of your vagina too. And it's very hard to maintain enough concentration to lie when you're exposed so vulnerably and have a stranger hovering over your lady garden with hot wax and strips of cotton.
So instead of lying I find myself telling her everything. I think my brain panics at the sight of the wax and hopes (in vain) that full disclosure of whatever happens to be in my head will result in some kind of leniency on her part. Smalltalk with strangers doesn't necessarily have to be one lie after another (it's just more fun that way) but it certainly shouldn't consist of the brutal gory truth either. Sinéad does not need to know that I haven't had a wax since the last time I had sex, and that I haven't had sex in a while either. Because beauticians (like hairdressers) are masters of sympathetic flattery and a consolatory reply to a revelation like that goes something like "There there. I'm sure you'll find somebodyto ride you eh, you know, soon..." (trails off uncomfortably). I'd say she thinks I'm a right fucking spacer. I think next time I'll pretend to have lost my voice. It'll be a relief for us both.
So instead of lying I find myself telling her everything. I think my brain panics at the sight of the wax and hopes (in vain) that full disclosure of whatever happens to be in my head will result in some kind of leniency on her part. Smalltalk with strangers doesn't necessarily have to be one lie after another (it's just more fun that way) but it certainly shouldn't consist of the brutal gory truth either. Sinéad does not need to know that I haven't had a wax since the last time I had sex, and that I haven't had sex in a while either. Because beauticians (like hairdressers) are masters of sympathetic flattery and a consolatory reply to a revelation like that goes something like "There there. I'm sure you'll find somebody
