The girls are crammed into the tiny waiting room like sardines, pretending to read 'heat' magazine whilst stealing surreptitious glances at the competition. When I walk through the door I always feel like I am stepping into the abyss.
The majority of them are mid to late twenties and seem to model themselves on victoria beckham and the like, or maybe each other, they all look the same to me.
Most people would probably liken the scene to the backstage of a 'beauty' paegent, I think of slugs stuck to a drainpipe.
Through the semi transparent screens I can hear the familiar, ripping of hair, which fills me with dread but worse still is the idle small talk favoured by some waxers and beauty therapists.
This is the part where I squirm in my seat and try to make up some some beauty related interest in my head, though I never manage it, I know the waxer will invariably ask me the same pointless questions.
Surveying the hoards of beauty diehards I wander what percentage of their brains is taken up with this crap.
One girl keeps stroking the lengths of her impossibly straight hair like it's a furcoat, all the while pouting at her reflection in the opposite window. Another is compulsively reapplying pink lipgloss to her already saturated lips.
If she wipes it off, I think, her lips would disappear like Cruealla Devilles'. It's a good job none of them can mind read, they'd surely circle around me like a flock of vultures and peck my eyes out if they could. I chuckle at the thought.
The stench of some overbearing perfume makes me nauseous, literally and for a hot minute I consider nipping out to the cash machine and not coming back, but in that instant my attention is diverted.
A woman my age, maybe a bit older is stuggling through the door with a bulky pushchair, nobody gets up to help her. By the time I start out towards her she has already wrestled her way inside.
She plonks herself down with unconcious abandon, right in the middle of the pack of clones and yawns loudly. Her daughter and the pushchair are half concealing furcoat womans view of herself in the window but she doesn't notice the venomous looks being shot her way. Or I suspect she does know but couldn't give a rats arse.
I watch her intently as she looks down at her jeans, ruffles her hair with animated flair and begins to look at each and every girl in turn.
The look on her face is a mixture of amusement and disdain. She reminds me of myself and when she catches my eye, we grin at each other.
This little exchange fortifies me beyond belief. You see we are not like the rest of this pack, we don't care about fake tan and hair extensions and skyscraper heels. We have no beauty regime other than getting our eyebrows tidied a little.
Places like this make me wonder where individuality and autonomy of thought have gone. It makes me sad that so many women feel they have to conform to the unattainable standards society have set for them. I feel like standing up and screaming, "Be yourselves, you don't have to change the colour of your skin, it's fine as it is. Why are you paying thirty quid a time to have hair ripped out of your lady garden, a little bit of hair is normal!".
But my thoughts were interrupted by the lady with the pushchair. "It's busy here today" she says to me, taking me by surprise, people don't converse in these places. "Yep it is".
"I'm just getting my eyebrows done" she announces. "Same, I can't do my own".
Her eyes glance over the specials board, 'BRAZILIAN WAX SPECIAL OFFER', "Ever had one of them?" she wants to know. "Nope", I grin, "What about you?".
Before she answers she clears her throat and in a booming voice says "ANYBODY WHO THINKS THEY'RE COMING NEAR MY MUFF WITH HOT WAX MUST HAVE A SCREW LOOSE!".
I laugh so hard that tears roll down my cheeks. What a great woman, I think, I must remember to say that to someone else next time I'm here.