My Farewell to Salon massage

 I ceased indulging in those salon massage offers 😎

As I’m typing this, I’m still on the hunt for the verse that triggered that decision. Maybe it’ll come to me by the time I’m done typing this out. Do you ever find yourself getting smarter and wittier as you write? Do your thoughts refine themselves as you proofread, even when you were initially just enjoying the flow and maybe straying off-topic?

That’s kind of how my affair with salon massages went down. This delightful after-sale service kicked off when I was in my mid-20s around 2015, back when I could finally afford a trip to any salon in town. The fancy ones always had these charmingly dressed ladies. I distinctly recall this particular salon I visited once. They had a Munyarwanda masseuse who, at one point, maneuvered my head toward her boobs as she worked on my scalp. Or was it the other way around? Either way, my boxers must’ve sensed a shift in the blood flow to their neighbor. 

Sadly, the salon was quite a hike from my place, but I’d have been sorely tempted to make the journey again back when my blood was boiling hotter than a kettle those days.

That desire and sensation lingered on into my 30s. Then, one evening during a massage, I had this internal epiphany that something just wasn’t right. I was practically experiencing some form of foreplay. Sometimes, I’d even find myself daydreaming about how the massage session would unfold based on how attractive I reviewed the masseuse before the session. If I didn’t deem her pretty enough, I’d cancel the whole shebang.

Now, mind you, I’m a married man, constantly pruning out those pesky little foxes from my heart, and I noticed I was slowly succumbing to the temptation of letting someone else satisfy a longing that should only be reserved solely for my marital bed.

So now, I stick to getting my hair trimmed, washed, and avoiding that particular temptation.