Scary Hairy Mary

I hate this getting old.  Nothing seems to resemble the movies I watched as a child or the promises they made about adulthood.  There are no flying cars, I don’t own a light sabre and my home isn’t a palatial mansion.  But it’s worse than that.  I am not growing more youthful or dashing, beautiful young women do not throw themselves at me and I rarely save the day.  As if getting old was enough of a chore, increasing my doubts that I’ll ever play football in the Premiere League, Mother Nature seems intent on being mean.  She’s scratching lines into my face and stretching my skin in the more unlikely of places.  She’s determined to shift my centre of gravity to my waist and she’s robbing hairs from my scalp and planting them elsewhere on my person. 

Enough is enough.  I have drawn a line, not that I really need another.  I fear my wrinkles are here to stay but I’m hoping they’ll add character, Harry Potter, if I’m lucky; I’m sure my waistline has the potential to shrink but what else are belts for?  For the other I am taking more drastic action.

I had walked past the window three or four times before summoning the courage to go in.  My furtive shuffling back and forth had done little to create a good first impression.  On the contrary, by the third pass the girls inside were peering nervously out with a look normally reserved for bearded Arabs with rucksacks or men in trench coats.

It was too much.  I couldn’t do it.  I retired to fortify myself with a nice cup of tea and hoped they might forget about me during my twenty minutes in the café.   

I knew I was being silly.  This is the twenty-first century.  The age of the New Man.  Equality.  Tolerance.  Metrosexualism.  I had nothing to fear.  But then, I am a man who is regularly afraid of nothing.

They remembered me.  Damn it.  The girls.  The attractive, if slightly clichéd, bleached blonde girls.  With their marginally over done make-up.  And their unsettlingly low necklines, their aggressive, youthful, pouting and their ironic white tunics.  Oh, they remembered me.  Oh, they remembered me.

Some men would carry this as a badge of honour.  A gaggle of girls.  A giggle of recognition.  Some men would be pleased to have been noticed, to be the centre of their attention.  But I struggled to draw any comfort from their deduction that I was utterly utterly harmless.

I was alone with five peroxide blondes.  Half my age.  Not for the first time, I felt every ounce of confidence, and for all I could tell, every stitch of clothing, evaporate.  This was not comfortable nakedness.   I am not Caligula.  I am not cool.  And I have never been called Mr Cucumber.  Thank God I can always fall back on my natural wit and charm.

“Wax.”  I blurted.  “Wax.  I’m sorry, it’s a bit embarrassing.  Do you wax?”

One of the girls shifted uncomfortably and, without thinking, rubbed her lip.

 “I mean, obviously, you wax.  I can see that.  That’s what you girls do, isn’t it?  And I’m sure you do a good job.”

The girl on the reception desk stool crossed her legs and scowled.

“Best thing for it though, isn’t it?  I mean, have it off.  One good hard yank.  All done.  No fannying around.”

I’m not entirely sure they grasped my meaning.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw one reach for the telephone or the under-the-counter alarm or a baseball bat.

“I bet it stings a little.  Is it sore afterwards?  It’s just, I’m going to have to squeeze in between other things.”

I paused.  For some reason, I was still the only one talking.

“You do do it though, don’t you?  And you could do me?  Not now, of course.  I’d like to shower first.  Maybe afterwards too.  So in a lunch hour, maybe?”

The room was beginning to feel a little warm and a tad smaller.  I tried a different tack.

“My wife, who obviously knows about these things, says not to worry too much, it’ll only take a couple of minutes.  That I’ll be in and out before anyone notices.  She thinks it’s the best thing.  To be honest, I think she’s a bit fed up with me badgering her about it at home.  Says I should just go and do it.  Find a pro, so to speak.  Someone cheap.  So here I am.”

Although sense had long been absent, my mouth finally ran out of words.

I took a breath; relieved I’d articulated it all so clearly.  I had been worried.

I looked at the girls.  For what seemed like quite a long time. 

‘What,’ asked the girl behind the desk with as much restraint as she could muster through gritted teeth, ‘do you want?  Tell me or I’ll call the police.’

“I’m sorry.  What?”
‘What do you want?’

Poor girl.  Obviously struggling to understand plain English.

I spoke more slowly.  And a little louder.

“I have some hair.  I’d like you to wax it off.”

A beat.  Four of the girls visibly relaxed.  And looked at the fifth.  I can’t be sure, but I’d swear she’d gone a little pale.

The receptionist, suddenly animated, pulled out the appointments book.

‘In a couple of days time?’ she asked with surprising enthusiasm.  ‘Give us enough time to get everything ready.’

“Marvellous!” I cried and skipped out the of the salon, pleased it had all gone so well.

Comments

[Robbie]

Smooth

[Carlton]

I like to think so, Robbie. I like to think so.

c