Ow! Ow! Ow! It’s insane. It has to be the most painful thing since watching the Eurovision. Ever. And I’ve been through childbirth (I don’t think my squashed hand will ever fully recover).
They seemed to remember me. The girls at the salon. In fact I was a little startled to see them all lined up at the door when I arrived. But I like that level of customer care. Made me feel important right away, just as when I was young, people would pat my head and say I was special before stepping aside and whispering quietly to each other.
There was a fair bit of whispering today. Giggling too. The girls were clearly excited. And who could blame them. After all, it’s not every day they’d get their hands on a specimen like me. I couldn’t fault them for being a little giddy. I had the impression they’d been looking forward to me coming back.
To be honest their enthusiasm was a bit of a surprise. I had wondered if my introduction last week, and the unfortunate incident with the girl I thought was deaf, might have tainted today’s appointment but on the contrary, they all seemed in very high spirits. They’d obviously had a chance to reflect.
A petite blonde girl called Cheryl led me up to the Therapy Room on the first floor.
“Do you do it a lot?” I ventured as way of conversation.
‘What?’
“This. I bet you get some real characters.”
She paused and glanced back at me.
The abrupt stop and the rake of the stairs brought my face perilously close to her skirt.
Her eyes narrowed.
‘Yes. Some.’ She said.
I let her get a few steps ahead before starting after her.
“When I came last week, I was a bit embarrassed when I asked about waxing downstairs.”
She stopped again. I was ready this time.
‘What?’
“Yes, when I asked the girls about getting rid of some unwanted hair downstairs.”
‘Downstairs?’
“Yes. Downstairs. Down below.”
‘You asked about waxing down below?’
I nodded. Then nodded my head in the direction of reception. And nodded again. I felt a toy dog.
There was that curious stare again.
“Yes. I wanted to know if you girls did it.”
She looked unsettled. She pointed through a doorway and scurried away mumbling something about a water tap.
Inside the simple white room there were few accessories. In the corner a potion of molten liquid bubbled quietly. Stainless steel tools lay carefully arranged on a stainless steel trolley. In the centre was a narrow bed. On the walls, a couple of pictures of dolphins. Presumably to calm the occupants. It was as close to a mediaeval torture chamber as I could imagine this side of Milton Keynes.
Out of some invisible entrance, an Umpa-Lumpa appeared. She must have been the smallest human being visible to the naked eye. Her name was Dora.
“Are you Ola?” I asked reading her name badge, “The girls said it’d be Ola.”
I immediately realised I sounded like I had a favourite. Like I’d been here before. Like I was a regular. Like I was disappointed. Like I’d forgotten that my well-being and comfort for the next 30 minutes (and possibly longer) was entirely in this girl’s hands.
“Of course you’re not Ola. It says your name on your badge. Dora. Like the explorer.”
I was partially relieved to learn she didn’t speak English. Still, through the international language of hand signals, she’d quickly reduced me to my underpants. And then realising my mistake, merely shirtless and face down on the white starched sheet.
She clearly enjoyed her work, our Dora. I’m not entirely sure that she needed to actually kneel on me to achieve the maximum leverage but she was an Umpa Lumpa on a mission. And my God, she was ruthless. Nothing distracted her. Nothing. Not my pitiful yelps. Not the scolding wax which she ladled on using her bare hands. Not the group of lost shoppers looking for Woolworths. No. Nothing.
She didn’t stop until I was numb. Red raw. And utterly, utterly hairless.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I bore an uncanny resemblance to plucked chicken. It was clearly a big improvement.
I looked back at Dora. She was smiling.
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