![]() ![]() My confession is as mortifying for me as it is for her – mostly because there aren’t any other sizes available, so it’s only then, after all that, that the therapist allows me to keep my own clothes on. I have to admit that, actually, the robe doesn’t fit me. And so now I have to go back out, my face hot and red with embarrassment, my heart beating out of my chest, and have the same awkward conversation that I’ve had so many times before. ![]() Whatever you want to label it, that’s what I am. It’s so small that it’s barely going to cover one of my arms. I take one look and know it’s not going to fit. I take the dressing gown and unfold it, hoping that for once, I might be wrong. I know exactly how this is going to go but I play along anyway. “There’s a dressing gown in the locker, pop that on and I’ll wait outside for you.” She insists I change so I reluctantly agree and I’m led to a changing room. I politely decline, saying I’d rather keep my own clothes on. “Do you want to slip into something a bit more comfortable?” the beauty therapist asks me.
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