It isn’t until 6:45 the following night when I am clearing away the dinner dishes and I hear a car in my drive that I remember.
And I curse loudly enough to make any sailor or truck-driver proud.
“What?” Sophie looks up from where she has settled in to do homework as she eats a brownie. I shake my head.
“Nothing, sweets. I just forgot that I promised Aunt Sara that I would help her this evening.”
“With what?” Sophie asks curiously. I draw a blank.
“Um, nothing,” I stutter.
And I am saved by Sara’s red head poking into my kitchen.
“Are you ready?” she calls. “And I don’t want to hear any arguments. Oh, hi, Soph,” she coos to my daughter.
“What are you two up to?” Sophie asks suspiciously, narrowing her hazel eyes.
“Us?” Sara splays a manicured hand across her bosom, which is perfectly displayed in a low-cut, tight blouse. I’ve got to hand it to her. Sara is truly playing up this cougar thing.
“We’re doing nothing. Your mom simply needs my help tonight.”
Sophie’s eyes instantly grow narrower. “Mom said she was helping you.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Sara gushes. “She’s helping me. With something.”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “You guys are weird. I’ve got homework to do anyway.” She picks up her books and trudges down the hall toward her bedroom.
“I won’t be late!” I call after her. She waves at me over her shoulder without saying anything.
I turn to Sara with a sigh. “Alright, fine. I’ll do it.”
She looks at me innocently. “Was it ever a question?”
I sigh again. I am clearly surrounded by lunatics.
********
Twenty minutes later, I am terrified.
I am na**d from the waist down, flat on my back with a tiny towel covering up my female parts. A tiny little chick with an eyebrow ring is getting the wax ready and I’m panting again. Did I mention that the wax will be hot? And that it is going on my private, tender female parts? I pant harder.
“Calm down,” Sara instructs, sitting next to me.
They don’t usually allow spectators in, but Sara convinced them that I would need my hand held. At the moment, I think I would rather hold hands with the devil himself, considering how it is Sara’s fault that I am in this predicament in the first place.
“Your vagina will thank you,” she announces to me. “So suck it up and put your big girl panties on. You’re going to be fine.”
“I can’t put my big girl panties on,” I hiss. “Because I’m getting the hair on my vagina ripped out by the roots. So, obviously, I can’t pull up any panties, big-girl or otherwise.”
Sara rolls her eyes.
“Why do you have to be so melodramatic?” she asks, peering at me over the top of her fashion magazine. “This is for your own good. Do you really want to walk around with something that needs a weed-wacker?”
The Waxer-Girl (because I have no idea what her true title is) giggles as she turns around, a wooden spatula thingie in her hand. I gulp and I know my eyes are wild as I assess the room for an escape hatch. Without even looking up, Sara puts a hand on my arm.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says, while still reading her article.
“I’m going to throw up,” I try.
“No, you’re not,” she answers.
“I have cramps,” I attempt.
“Doesn’t matter,” she replies.
“I think I’m pregnant,” I hedge, as a last attempt.
“Impossible,” she says heartlessly. “And irrelevant. Preggos need bald vajayjays too. Now, let’s get on with it, shall we?”
She’s looking at me now, with one thinly sculpted brow practically raised into her red hairline. I gulp and nod, squeezing my eyes shut. I do not want to watch this. At all.
“For the record,” I tell Sara while keeping my eyes tightly closed, “I do not need a weed-wacker.”
“Irrelevant,” she says again, her attention once again absorbed by her magazine.
I sigh.
Waxer-Girl clatters around a little bit by my elbow and then examines my vag.
“Okay, Ms. Lancaster,” she says. “I’m just going to first spread the wax, then…”
I interrupt her. “I don’t want to know,” I say firmly. “Just do it. I’m not looking.”
“Okay, m’am,” she says. I can tell she’s smiling, but I don’t care. Considering the circumstances, I also overlook the fact that she called me the dreaded m’am.
I feel the wax, hotter than I would have imagined, getting spread on the part of me that should never be exposed in a salon or anywhere else with fluorescent lighting. Ever. Except in a doctor’s office which can’t be helped.
She puts something thin on top of the wax. Then she pats it down. And pats some more. And since I have had my eyebrows waxed faithfully every six weeks like clockwork since I was a teenager, I know what comes next. I brace for it. And brace for it. And hold my breath and brace for it again.
And then it comes.
Riiiiiiippppppppp.
The room literally blurs for a second. I think I might actually be having an aneurysm from the white-hot pain. I can barely even see straight.
“Holy shit!” I yelp. I grab ahold of Sara’s arm now and sink my fingernails into it.
“Oh, so now you want to hold my hand?” Sara says with interest. And a little bit of snark.
“No,” I snarl. “Now I would like to rip your hand off. Just like you just had my pubic hairs ripped off. It’s only fitting, don’t you think?”
She shakes her head. “Oh, Alli. You truly are a drama queen. Now I know where Sophie gets it. You’re going to survive, trust me.”
“I might,” I tell her confidently. “But I doubt you will.”
Sara rolls her eyes as the second round of wax gets applied.
Pat, pat, pat.
I cringe, getting ready.
Riiiiiippppppp.
I yelp again. And dig my nails deeper into Sara’s arm. If possible, that was worse than the first time.
“Oh, holy pygmy monkeys,” I moan, wanting desperately to cradle my vagina and sing to it.