Miriam ignores me, choosing instead to direct her full attention at Wayne.
‘Turn around!’ she barks. ‘Now!’
At the back of the room, I see Brody and Vincent start to laugh. An icy droplet of dread trickles down my spine, but I am powerless to do anything except watch as Wayne raises his hands in the air like he’s being arrested and slowly, slowly turn so that his back is facing towards us.
How did she know? She can’t possibly have known.
‘What do you have to say about that?’ Miriam enquires. There is silence for a moment before I realise that the question is aimed at me, not Wayne.
I stare at his shirt for a second and then I walk closer, weaving my way in between the desks until I’m standing right behind him, reading what is written in very bold and very permanent pen.
Love is beautiful like #nofilter.
Love is precious like an iPhone X.
Love is sex and drugs and rock and roll.
Love is chaos and death.
‘Who was working with Wayne?’ My voice is quiet and nobody speaks. I do a slow one hundred and eighty degree turn, looking at every single member of the class. ‘Who was working with Wayne?’
Very slowly, three sets of hands rise into the air.
So much for working as a pair.
‘I said that we—’ starts Elise but Miriam sticks her hand out, palm towards the class. Elise wisely shuts up.
‘Stand up, all of you,’ I snap. Brody, Vincent and Elise all move to stand beside Wayne. ‘Whose idea was it to write on Wayne’s shirt?’
More silence, but I am not surprised. These kids would rather chop off their own arm than risk looking like a snitch; even Elise, who is currently chewing on her bottom lip and looking slightly pale.
‘If they aren’t prepared to tell the truth then they must all suffer the consequences,’ intones Miriam. ‘Destruction of property is a serious offence.’
I nod at the four delinquents to sit down and gesture Miriam to the side of the class.
‘Have you read their mind map, though?’ I whisper. ‘It’s actually pretty good. They’ve really considered the complexities of love as it’s portrayed in the play.’
She stares at me like I’ve just grown devil horns.
‘They drew on Wayne’s school shirt, Mrs Thompson. The quality of the work is absolutely irrelevant here.’
No. It isn’t. This is the first time that I have seen any member of Year Nine, Class C exhibit even a modicum of intelligence. I could give literally zero fucks about the method of display. They could have smeared it in lipstick across the wall for all I care – the entire point is that they have clearly, despite every single piece of evidence to the contrary, been listening to my lessons.
It is an actual miracle. I refuse to let Miriam Wallace and her stupid rules take this away from me.
‘I expect to see all four pupils in after-school detention for the rest of the week,’ she says, raising her voice. ‘You too, Mrs Thompson.’
‘You’re putting me in after-school detention?’ I say weakly.
She’s gone too far now. She might think that I’m doing a crappy job but she can’t treat me like one of the kids. I will not be sent to after-school detention – it’s a complete violation of my rights.
Miriam nods. ‘I’ve been revising the rota and you are now down to cover after-school detention duty today, tomorrow and Wednesday.’ She pinpoints her laser focus onto me. ‘Is that going to be a problem? It is part of your temporary contract.’
Of course it’s a problem. And it’s completely unfair. She’s punishing me and there’s nothing that I can do about it if I want to keep my job. The job that she takes great pleasure in reminding me is only guaranteed until the end of the year. I’m putting my foot down over this. She’s pushed the wrong woman this time. Brace yourself, Miriam, and prepare to witness my wrath.
‘No problem at all, Ms Wallace,’ I trill brightly, through gritted teeth. ‘I shall be there.’
Miriam nods at me and with a last glower at Year Nine, Class C, storms back out of the door.
I stagger to my desk and sink back into the chair. I am not living my best life right now. Not in the slightest.
‘We told you that she never let us use the felt tips, miss.’ Vincent’s voice rings out loud and clear. ‘She thinks we’re too thick to be let loose on anything permanent.’
‘You and me both, Vincent,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘You and me both.’
Chapter 4
There’s no questioning the facts. It is one hundred per cent there and I have one hundred per cent got to deal with this situation immediately. Part of me was hoping that it was a joke, but the more that I stare into the magnifying side of my mirror the more the evidence stares back at me.
Brandon Hopkins was correct, which must surely be the first time since I started teaching him that such an event has actually occurred. I would find this cause for celebration if it weren’t for the fact that on this particular occasion, I would be happy to prove him wrong.
But as he so accurately and loudly pointed out during period six on Wednesday afternoon, I have a lady-moustache.
And I am about to do something about it.
The instructions on the packet are pretty basic but the page of safety precautions goes on forever. I start to read, squinting to see the tiny words.
This product is suitable for upper lip, cheeks and chin.
Chin? Brandon Hopkins didn’t mention anything about me having a lady-beard, but I’d rather be safe than humiliated in front of Year Nine, Class C next week. Grabbing the mirror, I scrutinise the skin below my mouth, searching for errant hairs. Fortunately for me, the majority of my facial growth appears to be confined to the area between lips and nose; I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m pretty sure I didn’t buy enough product to deforest my entire face.
I keep reading.
This item is NOT SUITABLE for the rest of the face, the head, the ears, or around the anus, genitals or nipples.
What now? Why would anyone in his or her right mind want to put wax there? What would be the purpose? Are there really people in the world who care about whether they have a hairless arse? And who would even know if they did have the odd hair or two in the vicinity of their rectal opening? I mean, I’ve never thought to check but now I’m wondering if I need to have a quick look.
Shuddering, I shove the instruction leaflet in the bin. It lost me at anus and I don’t care to read one more word. Not that I need instructions, anyway. The wax strips are laid out in front of me and it’s obvious what I need to do. I have two X chromosomes after all. The skills that I need to complete this task are inherent in my DNA. It’s genetic memory – I have inherited the knowledge that I need to remove my excessive and unwanted moustache from my mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before her, and – well, I’m not sure how long waxing your upper lip has been a thing, but it’s not as if candles are a new invention, so the craft probably goes back for many generations.
I pick up a strip and warm it between my hands before peeling off one side. Then I apply it to my skin, pressing it into place to make sure that it’s stuck down really firmly. And now it is the moment of reckoning. I’m quite looking forward to this bit. I’m not stupid – I’m aware that there may be a small degree of pain involved – but surely it won’t be worse than pulling off a plaster? And these things can often be quite satisfying, in their own way.
I take a deep breath and yank the wax away from my upper lip in one smooth movement.
‘Fuck it, that hurts!’
On the floor, Dogger gives me a baleful look. I ignore her and peer eagerly at the wax strip, keen to see how much hair I have managed to remove.
There is bugger all there. Not one single strand.
I am not feeling satisfied in the slightest.
I lean towards the mirror again, trying to ascertain the current status of my moustache, but the skin is tingling and slightly pink and I can’t tell if the hai
rs are still there. But it’s okay because this is my first go and sometimes it takes a while to get the knack of doing something technical like this. Otherwise, beauty technicians wouldn’t need to exist, would they? And I have loads more wax strips left. I’ll just keep going until I’ve got rid of them all.
The next fifteen minutes are not the best fifteen minutes of my life. On a scale from stubbing a toe to giving birth, I would say that the pain threshold hovers somewhere around the time I accidentally shaved off an entire strip of skin from my ankle to my knee. Both the bath and I looked like we’d been involved in a particularly gruesome episode of CSI: The Shires. At least this time there isn’t any blood.
Finally, when I have waxed over the same piece of upper lip with every wax strip that was in the box, I admit defeat. I haven’t seen a single hair come out and my lip is sore and suspiciously red.
There are worse things than a slight smattering of hair on my face, I tell myself. I am a grown-ass woman and I do not have to conform to the stereotypes imposed upon me by society. In fact, it is my duty as both a parent and a teacher to educate the next generation and show them, by my example, that it is possible to be successful and professional and intelligent and a worthwhile member of society while sporting a tiny lady-moustache. These things are not mutually exclusive.
Glancing at the time, I realise that unless I get moving then I’m going to be seriously late. I am experimenting with trying to keep as busy as humanly possible on Thursdays and Fridays, in a pathetic attempt to convince myself that not being at work is a treat and basically a good thing. My plan for today is to pamper myself. I have a lovely, relaxing appointment at the hair salon – which I probably can’t afford, hence the DIY hair removal, rather than paying an extortionate amount for someone else to get up close and personal with my lip-fringe.
Coaxing Dogger downstairs, I shoo her out into the back garden, so that she can take care of her own personal hygiene, before grabbing my coat. I call her back inside, give her a biscuit, dash out to the hall and pause briefly to appraise myself in the mirror. My face isn’t looking too exhausted, and while my hair is a bit of a state, that’s okay – it would be a complete waste of a salon trip if it weren’t.
The drive across town is slow due to it being market day. It’s freezing cold but the sun is shining; there is an optimistic sense of spring just around the corner. Despite this, as the minutes tick by, I become increasingly aware that something is wrong.
Hideously, badly, catastrophically wrong.
On my face.
The tingling sensation that I had from the moment I yanked off the first wax strip has increased. In fact, it would be highly inaccurate to even describe it as tingling anymore. It is more an agonising, burning, stinging, throbbing torment that is making it difficult to think about anything else. I brake for a red traffic light and risk a glance in the rear-view mirror.
Fuckety fuck. My lip looks like I’ve been stung by a thousand bees, and not in a good way.
Now I come to think of it, who ever thought that ‘bee-stung lips’ could be a positive thing? Nothing good can ever come from being stung by a bee on the mouth. It’s utterly ridiculous.
A honking noise from behind alerts me to the now-green traffic light. I drive carefully down the road, trying to focus on parking the car safely, all the while wondering if I require immediate medical attention. The sign for the car park is up ahead and I take the corner, gently easing into a space and then turning off the engine before pulling down the sun visor so that I can examine the damage more closely.
The skin above my mouth is swollen, stretched so taut that it is shiny. But worse than that are the weeping, oozing spots that seem to have appeared from nowhere.
And I was wrong earlier. There is a little bit of blood.
On a scale from terrible to fucked up, this is very, very bad.
And I’m late for my appointment.
Grabbing my bag, I leap out of the car and race across the car park, my hand held defensively in front of my face as a precautionary measure. I don’t want to upset any small children who may catch sight of me. Dodging between little old ladies with pull-along baskets and mums with prams, I speed down the street and then, with a huge sigh of relief, push open the door and fling myself into the sanctuary of the salon. I will be safe here. They are professionals and their business is to take the lame and make them beautiful again. I am among friends.
‘Morning!’ Caroline emerges from the staff area as I catch my breath by the front desk. ‘How’s it going, Hannah? How are your kids? I saw Scarlet in town yesterday afternoon – I can’t believe how tall she’s getting!’
‘It’s going really well,’ I mumble, from behind my hand. ‘And the kids are fine, thanks. How about you?’
What does she mean, she saw Scarlet in town? Scarlet was at school yesterday. Caroline must be confusing her with someone else – maybe she’s got a doppelganger, or a clone. God, what a thought – I love my daughter deeply but two of her is a bit of an overwhelming possibility.
‘I’m good, thanks. Shall I take your jacket?’ She reaches towards me for my coat and I realise that I’m going to have to move my hand.
‘Thanks, Caroline.’
I turn my back on her and hastily lower the zip before shrugging the jacket off and turning back to face her, my hand once again in place across my mouth.
Caroline gives me a slightly weird look but says nothing as she takes a gown from the row of hooks by the door and hangs my coat in its place.
‘Just pop this on,’ she tells me. ‘And then come on through.’
I repeat the performance with the gown and then follow her into the main part of the salon, sitting down at the seat that she is pulling out for me.
‘So, what are we doing today?’ she asks my reflection in the large mirror. ‘Same as normal?’
I smile in agreement and then realise that she can’t see my mouth behind my hand. ‘Yes, please. I need my grey roots sorting out and a quick trim on the ends.’
‘No problem! I’ll just mix the colour and then we’ll get started. Can I get you a cup of tea while you’re waiting?’
A cup of tea would be lovely. It’s exactly what I need to calm myself down after all the stress of the morning. I would kill for a cup of tea right now. But they bring the milk in a little jug here; I will either have to drink black tea or move my hand from my face. Neither of those is an acceptable option right now.
‘No thanks,’ I mumble. ‘I’m fine.’
Caroline shoots me another look before retreating to the staff area and I stare bleakly at my reflection, my hand pressed tightly across my mouth. It seems very unfair that I am sitting in front of the world’s largest mirror, today of all days.
‘Here we are then.’ Caroline is back with the tiny amount of dye needed to eliminate my barely-existent grey hair. ‘Shall we make a start?’
‘Let’s do it,’ I mutter. ‘Work your magic.’
She places the bowl on top of her hairdresser trolley and swivels my chair round so that she can begin with the front of my head. I give her an encouraging smile with my eyes and hope that she’s not in a chatty mood.
‘Erm, Hannah?’ Caroline looks awkward. ‘I’m going to need you to move your hand. I can’t reach your hair with your arm blocking the way.’
Bugger.
I spend three seconds debating the pros and cons of asking her to just dye one side of my head before coming to the harsh realisation that there is nothing for it. I am just going to have to lower my hand and hope for the best.
And I’m probably being totally melodramatic, anyway. I haven’t actually looked at the stricken area since I left the car. The biting winter wind will no doubt have done a lot to bring the swelling down. Caroline probably won’t even notice anything wrong.
I lower my hand.
‘Bloody hell!’ Caroline’s shriek gets the attention of the rest of the salon; I feel five pairs of eyes turn to gaze upon my terrible form. ‘What have you done?�
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‘I was trying to wax my upper lip,’ I whisper. ‘It’s not that bad, is it?’
‘Not that bad?’ howls Caroline. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, Hannah! And we’ve seen most things in here,’ she turns to the gawping audience, ‘haven’t we?’
‘We’ve seen some shocking things,’ agrees her colleague from across the room. ‘But none as awful as that.’ He’s new since the last time I came here and I don’t know his name but, from the sneering look on his face, I suspect it’s something mean.
Caroline pats my hand in what I think is an attempt to be reassuring.
‘Maybe you’re allergic to the hair wax?’ she suggests. ‘I can’t think of any other reason you’d get a reaction like that. You did do an allergy test first, didn’t you?’
I shrug. ‘I didn’t know that I was supposed to.’
Caroline looks shocked. ‘Hannah! You must always test out any new product. You can’t just go playing life and death with your skin.’
I allow myself a small laugh. ‘I hardly think this is a life and death situation, Caroline. Let’s get it into perspective, shall we?’
Her response is to spin my chair so that I’m facing the mirror.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. This is so not okay.
I look like I’ve dipped my top lip into a raging inferno. I wonder if I will forever bear the scars of vainly trying to remove the tiny bit of hair that nobody except that little maggot, Brandon Hopkins, ever noticed in the first place.
The new hairdresser wanders over, his scissors in one hand, an industrial amount of mockery and contempt in the other.
‘You know, it looks to me like you’ve removed several layers of skin,’ he tells me helpfully, peering closer. ‘Did you wax the area more than once?’
More Than Just Mom Page 3