Fiction: Ouch

‘Ouch’. Andrea leaned back on her elbow and tried to lose herself in the trashy magazine. The skin on her arms had goosebumps, as if in sympathy for her left shin which has just been stripped of hair follicles with one determined ripping motion.

‘So how’s your love life’ asked Marg as she ladelled pink wax from the vat and spread it over the side of Andrea’s left leg.

‘Um, Marg, the wax might be a bit too hot I think.’

‘Sure Doll.’ Said Marg, and went over and turned down the thermostat. Andrea wondered how turning down the thermostat was meant to do anything in the here and now except pacify her and help the next lucky customer.

Rip.

‘Ow.’ Andrea wondered why she couldn’t think of anything more imaginative to say to express the sense of being plucked like a chicken.

‘Mmmm’ said Marg. ‘Quite a bit of regrowth.’

The trashy magazine was losing its appeal. Even with paparazzi photos showing cellulite the bloody models were still skinnier and taller than she would ever be. Best I accept my fate. Said Andrea to herself in her trying-to-positive voice. Her breath caught just as Marg ripped again. The dull ache of losing Simon to a woman to a woman with longer nails and legs than she could ever hope for was overridden by a sharp slap of pain from her shin. She shut the magazine and thought better of it and threw it on the floor. At least it’s only half leg.

‘So, your love life?’ Marg prompted.

Andrea sighed.

Marg shook her head. ‘A lovely girl like you, the men in this town are crazy.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve given up…..’

Marg shook her head. ‘Turn over’.

Andrea remembered being told that drunks didn’t hurt themselves when they fell downstairs. The trick was being relaxed. She tried to let her body go limp. Maybe that would help.

‘Give me a moment, I’m sure I can think of someone…..actually…..mmm…no…he’s about your age….how old are you again Doll?’

‘Twenty four.’

‘Turn over.’

‘Mmm. Well, he’s thirty two. Travels a lot, likes art and theatre and hiking too I believe…….’

‘Why do we do this to ourselves?’ asked Andrea as Marg had finally rotated her 360 degrees and she was back leaning on her right hand side, having tweezers applied to the stubborn hairs that would not yield without a fight.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Marg, who was intently focused on Andrea’s right kneecap.

‘This’ said Andrea. ‘It’s nuclear war. If none of us waxed then none of us would have to….’

Marg continued to pluck stubborn hairs.

‘Just lift up your knee for a sec.’ said Marg.

‘Same with heels. If we all made a pact to not wear them, just wear flats, the world would be a better place….’ Andrea continued …’of course someone will always break ranks….so you are never going to be out of job….’

Andrea looked over at Marg to see what she thought. Marg was in full flight. Approaching Andrea with a spatula of hot wax and arm extended headed for Andrea’s knickers.

‘Oh, no, not today. Just the half leg.’

Marg looked up at her. Her eyes that were flashing through her Dior glasses frames. Her tanned, lined forehead was creased in a dangerous way.

‘Andrea, you are not leaving here with THAT. You look like you just dropped out of a tree in the jungle. You are going to a wedding tomorrow aren’t you?’

Andrea nodded.

‘Right, well I can’t have you leave here like an Orangatang can I? What if you meet some guy ….uh….no.’

‘OK. I give up……’ said Andrea as she held the left hand edge of her knickers up for Marg. ‘…it’s been a long winter.’

‘Clearly.’ Said Marg with a grim mouth.

‘Ouch’ said Andrea. She was not prepared for the pain this time.

‘Marg. When did it stop being OK to be a woman?’

Marg looked up from Andrea’s crotch.

‘You’re asking the wrong lady, sweets. You pay me to get you ship shape.’

Marg turned back to the vat, replenished and returned to Andrea’s blotched skin.

‘Wait’ said Andrea. But it was too late. A strip of hot wax was now spread-eagled on the right hand side of her knickers.

‘What if we gave it up – the beauty arms race I mean?’ asked Andrea and realized with surprise that she had spoken out loud.

Marg turned and her eyes narrowed.

‘Well I’d be out of a job….’ Said Marg. And with a resounding rip the wax came off.

‘Ouch’.

THE END.

– Lisa Schutz