Every Saturday, he insists they go there. They go, she walking and he on the bike he’s still adjusting to. They go and wait, the two of them. They wait until the air gets too windy or too cold or it gets too dark or he gets too hungry to hold out.
For a year, they wait. She knows better but she waits for him, and she waits for him to realize the truth.
Their mother, mama, mommy, had kissed his forehead and her cheek one day and said she’d “be right back” and she had left them with a fridge full of food and drinks. That was a year ago.
And so they wait. She waits because he wants to wait and they wait for the red Dodge Neon to drive up the path to pick them up and cars pass, many of them red, but none stop for them. But he is still hopeful and he wants to wait like they did every Saturday when mother, mama, mommy would come from work.
One day, he turns to her as she puts her shoes on for the wait and says “let’s go to the park instead.”
So, today I got a full-face waxing done.
Let me backtrack. I went to a salon to get my eyebrows and upper lip (yes, it’s needed) waxed as I do regularly. The lady waxer informed me I was “really hairy.” My first reaction upon being told that was to think, “now, bitch.” Yes, I am hairy, that’s why I wax. But the wolfman hairy? I don’t think so. To be honest, I am pretty stable in the amount of hair I have. I shave and wax, and I could give two shits about the hair on my arms. All normal, willing body alterations by myself, and I was perfectly fine with that and my hair. Until today.
Immediately, I began to feel insecure, listening silently as she showed me all the places where I was extra hairy. My jaw, chin, forehead, cheeks- all places I was pretty sure there was little to no visible hair. She pointed out every imperfection and I found myself agreeing to the thirty dollar charge for the full-face waxing in an almost zombie-like state. She stepped outside for a moment for what I assumed was to get the wax but I could hear her speaking to someone, and I could hear, “she needs a lot of work.”
In addition to being in pain over the waxing, I was now also paying for the sting of a stranger’s completely honest opinion of me. Well, if I was paying thirty bucks when I went in expecting to pay ten, I was sure getting my money’s worth.
Eyebrows and lip, no problem. Aside from one patch underneath my left brow, those waxes don’t even hurt anymore. After all, I had been doing this since I’ve been sixteen. The lady began to wax my face in strips- a small-scale version of the waxing scene in The 40 Year-OId Virgin, if you will- and I found myself starting to tear up from both the surprising pain and the pure shame of being such a mess physically that this woman had to tell me. I lay on my back, eyes closed out of shame of both being imperfect and unwilling to allow this stranger to see me cry. I don’t do crying in public.
When the lady was done, she told me to look in the mirror and when I did, I was stunned by what I saw. My entire face, red as a tomato from irritation and the fact that I had just been stripped of hair and I’m sure skin and my dignity and possibly what was left of my self-esteem. I didn’t see much of a difference physically other than the eyebrows but the waxer had smiled and nodded and through the tears I was desperately trying to stop, I had mimicked her, keeping my smile wide as I said, “it’s good!”
I kept my head down as I walked to the register and paid and made my way to my car, partially out of shame and partially because, hello, I looked as red as the kool-aid man. The sting of embarrassment over not being up to par has kept until now, hours later. I actually found myself staring at myself in my bathroom mirror- something I try to avoid doing- pointing out every single flaw, those I could change, and those I couldn’t. I don’t hold ill will toward the waxer- she appeared to genuinely think she had done good and looked proud of her work, her little skinning of a tomato. Yet, the one question that keeps running through my head, even now, is “is that how everyone sees me?”
Can they see every flaw and are they judging me? Do I really need a lot of work? As insecure as I am, I had been feeling relatively okay with myself for about a month after deciding on New Year’s Eve that 2014 was going to be a new attitude and new outlook for me and today has seriously plummeted me back to square one.
The complete honesty of “she needs a lot of work” stung far worse than I thought it would. Almost as much as the torture waxing of my entire face. Almost.
Still red as a tomato and a-lot-of-work shamed to sit by myself in the dark, six hours later. It’s not a good feeling. I thought I had been doing so well.
Listen to: Sweater Weather, Alleyways, W.D.Y.W.F.M.?
Listen to: The Mother We Share, By the Throat, Recover
Listen to: Caterpillar, Speed of Dark, Home
Listen to: Dance Apocalyptic, Givin Em What They Love, We Were Rock & Roll
Listen to: Evil Eye, Brief Encounters, Love Illumination
Listen to: The entire album, but especially Heavy Hands, Blank Maps, Holland
Listen to: The entire album, but especially: Exodus, Double Bubble Trouble, Bad Girls, Y.A.L.A, Only 1 U and MATANGI.
Listen to: Every fucking song on this album. But go on and pay close attention to: Do I Wanna Know?, One for the Road, Fireside, Knee Socks, I Wanna Be Yours
(All titles lead to Spotify links, go listen!)
My boyfriend said I was a sociopath. Would a sociopath try to make someone cry just to see if they could? I think not.
What is the point of waterproof mascara if it is not impermeable to my random crying jags? I’m writing a letter.
If you think I won’t throw myself on this floor kicking and screeching, think again.