A Day of Beauty

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What a lovely, San Francisco kind of day. It rained all night, but today is crisp and fresh washed, the perfect day for an elderly poof, such as I, to go down to the Castro to get my hair did and a mani-pedi. Loved it.
Castro Street was at its most charming.

Some guy was sprawled on the side walk so I asked “Are you all right?” He replied indiginanatly “Of course I am.” Of course he was, and all was right with the world.
Is there anything better than gossip to go with your hair-do? My beautician, Jeff, was in rare form because a big muscley thing was in one of the chairs on the other side of the very small shop and Jeff had to practically whisper the dirt to me, which just improved it, n’est-ce pas? Seems Miss Muscle Thang has recently divorced his wife the better to pursue his sideline of snagging rich old men. He looked sort of like this, but more or less in clothes.

On behalf of old men everywhere, I say if you look like a gold digger, if you gots the gold digging equipment, go dig the mother fucking gold and make some old man happy. Plus, for some reason, Jeff does a better job cutting my hair when he’s distracted with gossip, so yay.
Then, on to Hand Job for my nails. Although I never specify who I want, I almost always wind up with Malwani. I have the impression she is not the most popular girl there, possibly because she is one of the homeliest trannies I’ve ever seen. But really, I’m not there for a date, so what do I care?


She does have spectacular nails, which is encouraging.
There used to be a kind of nice looking guy here who has vanished and my dragdar tells me he may have grown his hair out, rooted through his mawmaw’s jewelery box and emerged as Malwani. There are some Ladies who go through the change and give it their all, attempting to be the most feminine creature possible. Others make no effort to hide their more masculine voice and profile, who decide that they are all the girl they need to be and they are the ones I applaud and that seems to be Our Girl Malwani.
Also, Malawani understand my cuticles.
At the other end of the Hand Job spectrum, their receptionist/esthetician is this terribly cute boy named Frank.

I think a little eye candy improves any beauty regimen, don’t you? One of the services Hand Job offers is a Boyzilian Wax, the very idea of which makes my nuts retract into my body cavity and which I think Frank may be modeling here:

He’s also a model, you can see his site at Nakkid youth

I have no idea if his facials include a happy ending; I’m simply happy to live in San Francisco, where the guy booking your pedicure is possibly an up-and-coming porn star, or should be anyway.

12 responses »

  1. Arrgh! Bloody buggery Blooger didn't save this the first time!

    Anyway, who care what Malwani looks like if she does a good job on your nails? You're not marrying her after all!

    I once had a hair stylist who did a fantastic job with MY hair. HER hair scared people. Half of it was dyed coal-black and worn in a waist-length braid as thick as your wrist. The other half was dyed crayon red, closely cropped, and had a crosshatch pattern shaved in the side. Who says you can judge a book by its cover.

    PS and Re: Being an old poofter. You're only as old as you feel. Go feel some college students!

    Like

  2. Sounds like a lovely day, darling, and you deserve nothing less!

    As for gold digging, I'm at a point where (sadly) my motto is “Too old to get a sugar daddy, and too broke to be one!”

    Let that be a lesson to all.

    Like

  3. While you can look at a manicurist's hands and guess that you have a pretty good preview of the work she can do, you have to assume no one actually does their own hair so somebody else out there is responsible for that scary sounding do. But she picked it.

    Like

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