Aren't beauty therapists meant to make us feel better about ourselves?

I recently went for what is now known amongst my family members as Mum's Monthly MOT.

This activity involves getting my nails done, having my eyebrows tended to and treating myself to a quick trim.

It may seem extravagant, but as I vowed not to spend a single dime on clothes until I slimmed back down to my pre-baby weight (It's been sixteen years, so I'm thinking any day now) I feel these particular splurges are justified.

I may be wearing an oversized shirt and 'Mawm' jeans as my teenage daughter insists on calling them in an exaggerated American drawl, but you can be damn sure my eyebrows are neat, nails are shining and hair is devoid of demon split ends.

So why do I come home most months feeling somewhat deflated?

The montly excursion is meant to make me feel pampered and preened, but I invariably leave the salons feeling - how can I put this - chastised.

Splaying my fingers for the manicurist to began the treatment, I hear myself justifying my behaviour over the previous four weeks,

“You didn't use the cocnut oil every night like I said, did you?” she'll berate me as she assesses just how much of a mess I've made of my one and only job.

Pushing back cuticles, she'll pause before asking if I planned to branch out this time and perhaps opt for a different colour.

Abashed, I'll shake my head and she'll sigh before reaching for my standard plum, clearly dismayed she isn't getting to experiment on a young and adventurous twenty-something who could happily wear a psychadelic shade without developing a migraine.

The hair salon is no different.

Despite the fact I get a trim every four weeks, I'm still forced to endure the same lecture as everyone else.

“Have you been using the serum I told you about? “

I lie and nod enthusiastically despite the fact I never bought the damn product because Nathaniel needed shoes more than I needed a 'sleek, clean finish'.

“And what about the straightener? I'm seeing signs of the demon straightnener here, babes.”

“Yes, I've been using the straightener but I always put the serum in first,“ I chance.

I'll see her frowning at me in the mirror before she says: “But that's not a heat protecting serum. It's a styling product for afterwards.”

And with that the jig is up.

And then there's my eyebrow lady.

Despite the fact, I've been going to her for as long as I can remember, she still marvels at my distinct lack of eyebrows.

Plucking as a teen left me with a few random hairs and an all-emcompassing love for eyebrow gels, eyebrow pencils and any product while will hide my hairless shame.

“So few!” she'll exclaim as she gets to work with the tint.

“I know...I know.“ I'll sigh. “So few.”

By the end of my 'pampering session', I'm left questioning why I don't just tend to these activities myself and avoid the shameful conversations I'm forced to endure about my personal upkeep.

While I trust these ladies implicitly with my hails, hair and brows, I sometimes wish our exchanges weren't peppered with so much negativity.

Yes, I forgot to moisturise and yes, I chose not to buy the serum and yes, I have no eyebrows, but let's hear no more about it.