I hate to admit it but I've hit that certain age: I've become "particular". I like half a teaspoon of sugar in my tea (just half, no more, no less), I will most likely be standing on your left for all photographs (the right side of my face is someone I don't know...seriously...who is that person?) and I'm, FINALLY, publicly admitting that I prefer French's mustard to Dijon (Yes, the fluorescent yellow kind. Sorry Dijon. At least it's not pretending to be French or anything...hey...wait a minute.)
And the one other thing that I REFUSE to budge on is that I like my estheticians a little crazy. I do. I can't help myself. If I'm going to have someone pull out my pubic hair then they have to be a little psychotic. I've somehow convinced myself if my wax lady is nuts then she can't possibly be judging me. In fact I'd actually prefer her to wear a bag over her head but that would probably be asking too much. I'm also particular to my wax lady talking incessantly because if she doesn't then I will. There is nothing worse than a quiet wax. I need it loud and distracting enough that there is NO possible chance for either of us to have eye contact and come to the realization of what is actually happening. That would be deadly, or worse, unproductive.
So this brings me to my current lady: Let's call her..."Caroline". Why? Because that's her real name and there is no way in hell she'll ever read this blog. Caroline is great at what she does. Amazing in fact. For me, that is. She talks non-stop, never looks me in the eye, and yells the entire time. She gives that hair hell. She insults, criticizes and swears at every hair she is removing:
"Get out of there...YOU!"
"I hate you, you damn hair"
"Go to hell you!"
"Oh look at YOU just hiding there. I'm going to get you damn hair!"
This goes on for a good 20 minutes. I don't have to say a word. No need for me to talk about the weather or any vacation possibilities that she might have coming up. No need to to bring an extra shirt because I've sweated through my first one trying to come up with things to talk about to distract from the horrifying task at hand.
To be honest? It's like I was barely there. I was simply witnessing a middle aged Chinese woman be verbally abusive to body hair. It's like every customer is her Cassius Clay knocking out George Foreman** moment. It's a battle and she's won. I imagine her attaching a heavy weight belt around her waist or hanging a gold medal over her head when she's done for the day.
(**Do you know that every one of George Foreman's 5 sons are called George Foreman? Now what's the name of his grill again?)
Perhaps I'm mistaking passion for insanity. Regardless, she gets the job done and if we ever see each other outside of that esthetician room I hope she ignores me completely. Who wants to see Muhammad Ali outside the ring? No Thank You! That'd be like forcing me to drink tea with no sugar or eat a sandwich made purely of Dijon mustard.