A Different Kind of Happy Finish

So, after being beaten up in groups, on aone-to-one basis and completely without outside intervention, our bodies werein need of some repair. And that is where Thai Massage comes in handy

Rather like Starbucks on the UK high street,massage parlours are everywhere in Thailand. Every third building will houseone (the other two buildings will be a laundry and a minimart, with food and bike services tacked on the side).  Thegoing rate for a one-hour thai massage is around 250TB (£6) which is less thanit probably costs you to say hello to a therapist in the UK.

There are some crucial differences betweenthe British and South East Asian versions however, and it’s worth knowing thesein advance, to save on awkward cultural clashes (if you’re a fan of ‘Carry On’style hilarity, feel free to skip to the next post).

First up, the parlour itself.  Put any white robe and dolphin music spa idylls to the back of your mind, this is most likely going to look like someone’s front room.  In fact there’s a good chance that it is literally that, and you might have to wake someone up from where they are napping to serve you (Thais don’t have too much embarrassment when it comes to sleeping in the workplace).  

The massage“bed’ is likely to be a foam mat with a sarong type scarf laid over it, and theroom will probably house quite a few mats and other customers.

Before you baulk at the idea of stripping inpublic, let’s talk about the next point. Thai Massage is clothed. The masseusemight leave you alone for a minute to settle in, but she won’t be chuffed toreturn and find you sporting a hand towel and a smile. 

In terms of what to wear, something loose ispretty much the only sartorial consideration. Occasionally a massage place mightprovide some Thai fisherman’s trousers (one size fits all wraparound affairs)but in general baggy shorts, track pants and t shirts/vests are all good, tightbooty riders, lycra running gear (too slippery) or anything that gapes open andexposes your crotch easily are all bad.

The looseness isn’t just a comfort issue.What many people don’t know is that Thai Massage is quite an active procedure.The concepts behind it combine manual stimulation with energy channels and thelike, but the reality is that you will be doing second-hand yoga, with thetherapist twisting you into various positions and using her hands, feet, legs,knees and elbows to hold you there. Those various limbs will also be used toprod and knead regions you might not know you had, and at times during themassage would probably wish you could forget. 

Cracking noises are not uncommon,sighs and whimpering are also acceptable, and in the right circumstances caneven be taken as a compliment by the masseuse.  

There might be limited English depending on the massage parlour, but thewords “strong” and “pain” are pretty universally understood, and can be usedboth at the beginning of the massage to signal how deep and hard you want totake it or in emergency “I’m about to start crying” situations.

Some masseuses will tailor their trade to amore Farang-friendly gentle level as a matter of course, so if you fancysomething extreme it’s worth mentioning at the beginning of the session, andmaking diving style “A-Ok” gestures when they go to walk on your back.  And for the masochists/martial artspractitioners amongst us, bypass the pretty slender therapists and headstraight for the older, chunkier models, chances are they’ve had a lifetime ofsadism and will know what they’re doing.

So, in the Chalong area, Intana was my parlourof choice, and I was lucky enough to find this woman, who looks harmless buttook finding the far reaches of my pain threshold as some kind of personalchallenge.  It wasn’t pretty but my bodycertainly thanked her for it (although not necessarily the next day, a bit of falloutbruising is, I like to think, a good sign).

There are no proverbial “happy finishes” inthis establishment (be aware that most of these kinds of massage parlours don’toffer “extras” and some even print that on the menu) but there was the standardpost-massage cup of herbal tea, and a range of exotically labelled and colouredbiscuits.

They even gave me a jar of Tiger Balm as a going away present.

Blonde and Blonder

I mentioned back here how I was getting braver on the mats.

I couldn’t have predicted it, but the combination of gruelling training pace and endless supply of arse-kicking world champions is strangely liberating. Pretty soon you realise that there’s a place beyond “it’s over” (whether for hydration, exhaustion or depression reasons), a place where you carry on anyway. God knows it’s not skilled or pretty, but it definitely exists, and in a weird way I suspect it might be good for you.

And it’s an attitude that’s extended beyond the gym.

In typical chicken and egg fashion, it’s impossible to tell whether the training, or the chucking everything away and travelling across the planet to do it, kicked off the change, but I’m learning not to fall at the first hurdle. The inclination to chuck plans and schemes into the bin as soon as someone says “but wouldn’t that (insert concern here)…” is still very much ingrained, but I’m starting to take a step back, weigh up the options, and in a lot of cases, find a way around it. Or just do it anyway.

And post-tattoo, this mid-life rebellion has lead me straight to the bleach bottle.

For those that don’t know me personally, I’ve always been a dark creature. By birth brunette, I had a brief wash-in plum phase in my twenties, and have spent the last decade or so with jet black locks. Personality-wise too, I’ve proudly erred away from traditional “girly” and towards the alternative.

So, in no particular order, here are the reasons I shouldn’t go blonde:

1) I have so much black dye in my hair, it’s going to take several bleaching sessions to get it up to the colour I want it (ideally platinum, but will settle for that light “inside of a banana” colour they so rave about on hair websites.)

2) During that process, my hair could go dark red, bright orange, and dark blonde, none of which are colours that I aspire to.

3) It will totally fry the condition and my bank balance.

4) Having big, heavy boys, and smaller, technical girls, hang off my head in BJJ isn’t going to help that.

5) Nothing in my makeup/wardrobe/demeanor matches a sunny yellow-headed type.

So, those are the reasons why not to. Weighing up the “for” options:

1) Ever since I wore a light wig at a fancy dress party, and boys were especially nice to me for 15 minutes, I’ve wondered if the blonder types really do have more fun.

2) In addition, I have an instant crush on anyone rocking the punky blonde thing.

3) Whilst not cheap, it is substantially cheaper to go to the hairdressers repeatedly in California than in London.

4) Andy and an entire school-full of BJJ folk are the only people who will see me whilst I’m transitioning. No rocking up at the office with ever-changing fuzz on my barnet.

5) I’m going grey anyway, so “natural” isn’t really an option anymore.

A more sensible person would probably have seen a bit of shakiness in some of the “pros” but heck, sensible people don’t generally jet off around the world on a whim. Bring on the peroxide.

So far, I have spent about 8 hours in the hairdressers (4.5 hours the first time, 3.5 hours the second). I have had several turkeys’ worth of tinfoil layered all over my head in varying different patterns. I somehow skipped the deep red phase, but landed slap bang in carrot orange territory. And I am possibly paying for my hairdresser’s soon-to-be-born child to go through college.

The results? Well, the first time I had it done, I jumped every time I saw myself in a mirror. Despite living in the land of the blondes, I still feel like I’m subconsciously shouting “look at me, look at me” just by walking down the street. After a lifetime in the shade, the bright side is a bit of a shock to the system. And I’m now eying those neon items in my wardrobe with caution.

There’s one more bleaching session to go, next Friday. Before then, I need to get some moisture back into my frazzled hair – which means most evenings are spent plastered in goo and residing under a shower cap (lucky Andy).

Any initial shyness at unveiling a whole new hair colour twice at the gym will soon be overruled by my needing to wear a lycra swimming hat during sparring – at best, my hair ends up looking like this post-training, at worst it’s been shedding all over the mat.

Some days I love it, some days it bugs the hell out of me, but this trip is all about getting braver and breaking free of some of those “I can’t possibly…” patterns.

I’ll keep you updated.