Heading for home, Bettie discovers two new things have
arrived on the Isle of Man in her absence. And she can’t decide which is
creepier.
Like the moment I first saw a woman kickboxing with genital
warts on prime time television, there are times when we’re all reminded that
everything changes. One minute, we’re all covering table legs to avoid
excommunication every time the vicar drops by, then – quicker than you can pop a
pair of joy beads up your lovebox – the next I’m being asked if I want to
vajazzle my pee-pee place every time I go for a wash and set.
I heard that
little gem while visiting Time To Dye Salon De Beauté and Charcuterie (aka the
haunted hairdressers of Ballasalla) and I haven’t been so shocked since I
switched to margarine after watching that Last
Tango in Paris butter scene.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I arrived back on the Isle of Man
to the usual madness. This time I ignored Big Frank’s online groans, my
stepmother’s First Lady drones, and Mona’s cat-related… well, moans, and headed straight for my
bi-weekly hair appointment. I was a full day and a half early, but it was
either that or go insane on the doorstep. Still, as I left, Hubby #3 managed to
wave a copy of our latest financial statements outside the taxi window, and
it’s fair to say it contained more red figures than a Ralph Lauren textile
factory.
Arriving at Time To Dye, I was greeted at the door by the
owners, the lovely Baz and Lionel.
“You look positively haggard!” exclaimed Baz. “Doesn’t she,
Li?”
“Oh, positively,” agreed his partner. “What has happened?”
“I think I’ve just hit bottom,” I said, as they bundled me
inside.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s all the rage. We hit bottom
regularly.”
Inside, I found the clientele were acting like sex just got
invented that week. The reason? The meteoric rise of ‘Mummy Porn’ that was
currently being thrust down desperate housewives’ throats – and all because of
some sexed-up kinkfest paperback that Baz kept calling, “Fifty Shades of Gay.” Bondage, Discipline, and Sado-Masochism was
suddenly in Vogue – no, literally.
Now, you couldn’t pick up a copy of a glossy women’s weekly without there being
a whip, flogger, or spreader bar nipple-clamped to the front cover.
Truth be told, diary, I’ve never been au fait with kinky sex, but that’s probably because my past is
packed full with loser lovers. Take, for example, one lacklustre Lothario who
extolled his intimate sexual knowledge by spouting lines like, “The best way to
pleasure a woman in bed is to go straight for her clematis.” Then there was the
Army lieutenant who thought it was sexy to talk in combat code. That
relationship ran into major snafus right off the bat. I mean, it was hardly the
biggest of turn-ons being told he wanted to take me back to his place for a
Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo.
But, back at our house of horrors, I pulled up to discover
we had another bat for the belfry. My stepsister’s white-coated therapist and
some fur coated woman were standing on the doorstep, trying to convince my
crusty maid they weren’t cat exterminators, but were instead there to see me.
“And you are?”
“I am Dr. Helmut Dinkelïcker.”
“And this is?”
“My wife, Helga.”
“So, she’s a Dinkelïcker, too?”
“Oh, ja! We come
from a long line of Dinkelïckers.”
Sheesh, this island’s turned into a heaving hotbed of
supercharged libidos and now everything sounds like bad innuendoes! Making my
excuses, I dashed indoors. Because, at least I knew I’d be safe from anything
even approaching sexual there…
