Chapter Seventeen
“Size Matters”
—sticker seen on the back of a car, true statement.
Tensanne
MY DRESS FITTING on Tuesday was amazing. I never believed I could feel so beautiful, so comfortable, in my own skin, but I did. I can’t wait for Kohl and Ronnie to see this dress. Plus, the shoes Mrs. Brandt gave me are straight out of a fairy tale, only I’ll make sure I don’t lose one at midnight.
Today is the day.
Ronnie is on her way to get me so we can beautify ourselves, as she puts it. I’ve never been to a spa; I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. A text alerts me she has arrived. I grab my purse and coat heading out the door to the awaiting Uber. Only there is no Uber waiting in the circle drive. Searching the area confused, I grab my phone to text Ronnie when a horn honks, bringing my attention to the parking lot across from the dorm.
Ronnie’s waving her arms with a huge smile. Walking across the street to meet her I ask, “What are you doing? Where’s our ride?”
Waving her hand at the vehicle she is standing next to, like a Price is Right girl offering up the next prize, “This is our ride. My Christmas present from Daddy,” she exclaims.
Looking to the SUV she is displaying I gasp. A candy apple red Tesla Model X.
“Isn’t she pretty?” she asks. “Daddy spared nothing, check this out,” she says pressing a button on the remote making the back doors open toward the sky and out away from the vehicle, Falcon Wings is what they are called. Her eyes sparkle when she explains, “Plus, it’s obnoxiously fast; it goes from zero to sixty in two point nine seconds. No more Uber’s, Ten,” she says with glee. “What do you think?”
“I’m speechless, it’s so pretty and space aged.”
Hurrying me into the vehicle, she says, “Come on, come on. We’re going to be late for our appointment.”
Opening the passenger door, I slide onto the black leather that’s soft like butter and inhale the new car scent. I notice my seat is toasty warm on my cold legs. “Bun warmers,” Ronnie answers sensing my confusion. “We never have to sit on cold seats again. This pretty baby has seat warmers.” Giggling she puts the heaven on wheels, in reverse, backs out of her parking space, puts it in drive and presses the gas throwing my head back against the headrest and zooms out of the parking lot.
Pulling into the only parking spot available, we exit the nice warm vehicle, my legs protesting as the cold air meets the warmth ‘the bun warmers’ left behind, we make our way into Hand Job Spa and Salon.
I kid you not, that is what the place is called. Small towns, got to love them.
“Hello, Welcome to Hand Job,” a receptionist greets. I cover my mouth to hide the snicker that bubbles to the surface. Yes, my mind is like a fourteen-year-old boy.
Nudging me with her elbow to stifle my giggles, Ronnie greets, “Hello, we have an eight o’clock full treatment.”
“Great,” the receptionist says, “What would you like to start with? Spray tan, nails, hair, waxing or makeup?”
Wait, what? Did she say waxing?
Ronnie whispers to me, “Close your mouth,” bringing my gaping jaw to my attention. I correct myself while she tells the lady, “We’ll start with the waxing, please.”
“Wonderful, follow me,” the nice lady responds.
Walking down the serene hallway full of waterfall sounds and soothing relaxation rocks, Ronnie leans over and whispers, “You will thank me later for the waxing.”
Gritting my teeth with a grim smile, “I doubt that,” I respond.
“Is this your first time?” the receptionist asks, entirely too chipper for someone leading me to my doom. She leads me into a room and directs Ronnie into the room across the hall.
“Uh, yes,” I say, my voice quivering.
“Relax, it’ll be over before you know it and you’ll be so happy with the results. Undress from the waist down and cover yourself with the cloth,” she assures me, patting me on the shoulder. “Molly will be with you shortly.”
Molly. That’s a sweet name. How bad can it be with a technician named Molly?
Molly breezes into the room, a spritely little woman with a red hair cut pixie style, a cute little nose ring, and colorful tattoos. There’s no way this person could hurt me, she’s seems too sweet. If I had known I was going to suffer from a this-is-how-I-die level of pain, I would have pre-gamed with ample amounts of wine.
“Hiya,” Molly cheers, “So, is this your first time?”
“Y-yes,” I stutter.
“No worries. We use this great wax that has a numbing agent in it. You won’t feel a thing,” she winks. “Now, let’s see what we’re working with.”
I lay back on the table and she spreads my legs as wide as they will go, wider than they are meant to go as my hips scream in protest. No one has ever scrutinized my lady parts this much.
“Oh,” Molly says tilting her head to the side, still analyzing my lady bits.
“What does ‘oh’ mean?”
“You do know how to use a razor, right?”
Snorting, I reply, “Of course I know how to use a razor. I just never use one down there.” I’m mortified at my untamed hairy bush staring her in the face.
Patting my leg, she says with a smile, “We’ll just have to use more wax.”
She mixes up the wax, grabs a tongue depressor like stick and begins to slather my vagina with warm goo. It’s warm, tingling and kind of nice, leading me to believe this won’t be as bad as I have made it in my head until she leads the wax back to my anus.
“Um, Molly? Whatcha putting wax all the way back there for?” I stammer, a slight tremor in my voice.
Applying a white strip to the wax trail she has placed, “You scheduled a Brazilian Wax, right?” she asks ripping the first white strip away taking hair and I swear half of lower lips with her.
Holy shit, there is not enough vodka, painkillers or weed to deaden this pain.
“Good Golly, Miss Molly,” I shout, spots appearing before my eyes and I swear I’m on the verge of passing out.
Numbing wax, my ass. She lied; holy Beelzebub did she lie, this fucking hurts.
Before I can protest, she lines the next strip up.
Rip! Son of a. . . . fffuuuuuccckkk.
“Oh. My. God. Oh my God,” I scream.
“Almost done,” Molly chants in a sing-song voice.
Of course, she’s chipper, her labia s still attached to her body and not laying on one of those hairy pieces of wax paper she keeps throwing off to the side.
She continues to apply more wax, rubbing the paper on and ripping away all vestiges of my womanhood. I swear there will be nothing left of my pussy when she’s done and if there is it will surely never work again. My vagina will hate me for the rest of my life.
“Last one,” she chimes while she pulls the last strip away.
“Holy cunt hairs on a gorilla,” I shout with tears leaking from my eyes.
“Now, I need you to get up on all fours so I can make sure I have gotten all the straggling hairs,” she chirps.
Humiliation fills my body when I roll over and assume the downward dog position.
This woman has seen more of me than my gynecologist. I wonder if she’ll buy me drink when we’re done?
Slathering on soothing lotion, Molly smiles. Patting my leg once again, she says, “All done. You can get dressed and head to the nail station down the hall.”
“Molly? Can I have my vagina back before you dispose of those wax sheets?”
Laughing in a tone that screams ‘silly girl’, “You’ll be thanking me later when you experience the joy a bare vagina can bring,” she says and leaves the room.
Moving slowly, mumbling to myself, “Joy? What fucking joy? No one ever sees it; it’s not like Kohl is going to see it. It probably looks like a crime scene now, anyway. Stupid Ronnie and her Brazilian wax. Fire, all I have accomplished is starting a raging fire between my legs and not the good kind.”
Exiting the room, walking like there is a corn cob stuck up my ass, I try to prevent anything from rubbing the construction zone that used to be my pussy. I make my way to the nail technician. I ease myself into the chair, cringing when my crotch meets the hard-plastic seat, the receptionist offers me a bag of frozen peas.
Sensing my confusion, “Place it down there,” she instructs nodding her head toward my lap. “It gets easier each time but I remember my first time and frozen vegetables always helped ease the burn. Well, and copious amounts of booze, but you’re not old enough for that,” she snickers with a wink turning back to her podium.
I stuff the peas in the valley between my legs, “Oh, sweet Jesus,” I breathe when the cool meets the burning fire trapped in my pants. Thank the Lord for thin yoga pants, I think when Ronnie slides into the station next to me.
“Don’t give me the evil eye, Tensanne,” she says. “It’s worth it, I promise,” she reassures.
Once the nails tips are in place, painted in a dazzling French manicure style with melon colored, bejeweled tips, I make my way to the self-tanning area.
Fuck my life if anything can go right.
The tanning tech advises me to rub a lotion on any areas that I don’t want the spray to adhere to. My palms and the bottoms of my feet is the most important. She says that the booth will spray the front then I’m to count to five, turn and it will spray the back. When I finish, I’m to wipe away any dripping that has occurred on my skin.
Sounds easy enough.
Stripping down, I slather lotion all over my palms and the bottoms of my feet, taking care not to get it anywhere I want a tan.
The booth is a bright blue box with dual opening doors. I pull open the doors and peek inside. Inside are four sprayers at waist level with metal bars off to the sides.
Stepping in, I raise my arms and grab the bars. I reach over to flip the switch that alerts the technician that I’m ready to be sprayed. Closing my eyes and holding my breath, the first cold burst hits my skin. When the spray stops, count to five, turn and wait. Nothing happens. I count to five again, still nothing. I turn back around to see what is wrong and the spray hits my front side again, making it twice as dark on the front and still white on the back.
Exiting the booth, I blot the drops as instructed, to stop any running lines. I know I can’t stay like this, I poke my head out of the door to get the tech’s attention. When she comes to the door I explain what has happened, she instructs me that I need to get back in the booth with only my back facing the sprayers and let both cycles hit my backside so that it will be the same shade as my front side.
I get back in the booth and do as instructed, allowing both sprays to get my back. When I’m finished I’m twice as dark as I wanted to be but there is nothing I can do about it now. I flap my arms and move around the room to dry my skin.
Once it’s dry, I analyze myself in the mirror. Wow. With the melon color on my nails and my seriously dark skin, I look exotic, like I have been living in the tropics.
I like it.
Dressing and exiting the booth, I walk to the next station. Hair and make-up.
My stylist is named Michael and he is wonderful. He explains how fabulous my hair will be with some red low lights and dark blonde highlights. How adding layers will add texture and dimension to frame and show off my symmetrical face and tan.
He drapes a cape over the mirrors within my view claiming he wants to do a big reveal when he’s done. I feel like I’m on an episode of Extreme Makeover, the Tensanne Edition.
Ronnie, who is seated next to me, gives me a thumb’s up. With a fresh bag of frozen veggies shoved in between my legs, I say, “What the hell; give it your best, Michael.”
He foils my entire head, applying hair dye which makes my eyes burn, while my hair is coloring he begins to apply my makeup.
After checking to make sure my hair is the color he wants it, he directs me to the washing chairs. Removing the foils and massaging shampoo into my hair, I relax for the first time since entering the spa.
Once I’m seated back in his stylish chair he begins cutting away at my long, thick locks. Giving me a blowout, he teases and pulls, straightens and curls different sections of my hair.
When he’s done, he removes the coverings from the mirrors and spins my chair around.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp. Standing and getting closer to my reflection, “Is that me?”
The person staring back at me has a sultry smoky eye, lined in jet black. The coloring making the green come to life in my eyes. Contoured cheeks that make my cheekbones stand out and my hair is up with half pulled back and the other half in ringlet curls draping down my back.
“You are stunning,” Michael says, clapping with glee.
Tears brim in my eyes.
“No, no waterworks. You’ll ruin my masterpiece,” Michael warns.
Forcing back the tears, “Thank you. You made me beautiful.”
“No, honey. You were already stellar. I only highlighted it.”
Now we have been waxed, nailed, curled and tanned, Ronnie pays for our day and we drive back to the dorm to finish getting dressed.
She drops me off at the door, telling me she will see me soon.
Nerves are eating away at my insides, Kohl will be picking me up in less than an hour, I race upstairs to put on my dress. I have never felt so much like a woman as I do right now. My life has been about learning and studying. It feels good to take some pride in myself for once and discover there is a splendid woman under the layers of genius.
Shimmying my dress over my hips, it dawns on me that I like the person I am. All of me. Not only the one I see in the mirror right now but also the one that likes to study in her yoga pants, the one who rambles random thoughts and the one who will never be thin. Each version is me and altogether ‘me’ is magnificent.