by Messe, Ellie
Sitting in my usual chair at Logan’s the following week, I’m about ready to kill him. With my new wardrobe up to his standards, he needed something new to insult. Today, it’s my hair. He greeted me by calling me, Raggedy Ann. Which isn’t so bad, but then he added that I looked like Raggedy Ann if she got her hair stuck in a vacuum after spending the afternoon with a toddler and a pair of scissors.
Apparently, air drying your hair is a criminal offense to the wealthy.
“How often do you shave?”
“I don’t know. Couple times a month maybe.” His face contorts in disgust as he stares at my jean-clad legs, “What? I’m always in pants, plus you can’t really see it anyway.”
“Not the point,” He whines, his face still soured, “You can feel it.” He gives an exaggerated shiver, “Women are supposed to be soft, not rival their men for hairiest legs.”
Setting the expo marker on the counter, he moves over to take his seat. “Please tell me your armpits get more attention.”
Raising my arms, I pull the sleeve of my t-shirt lower to display my hairless pits. “Every day.”
“Thank God, I was afraid there for a moment.” Shaking his head, he leans back pointing to my pants, “What’s that area like?”
After a moment it dawns on me that it’s not my pants he’s pointing to, “That’s not even close to being your business!” I shriek.
“You’re here to learn the art of dating. Dating means eventually having sex, sex and grooming habits go hand in hand, therefore, making it my business. And I’ll go ahead and say this now; no man wants to fuck Chewbacca.”
“Oh my God, we’re not talking about this.” Heat creeps up my neck.
“How bad is it?”
“Logan, no.”
“It’s full cavewoman style isn’t it?”
“Logan!”
“What?”
“Next topic.”
“You know you’re going to have to clean up your furburger, right?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“If he has to floss after going down on you; there’s a problem.”
“Oh, ew! For the love of God, it’s not like that, thank you very much. And and I’m not after some guy, I’m after Cole, and he doesn’t do that, so I don’t see that being a problem. Next topic.”
His face contorts in disbelief, “What do you mean he doesn’t do that?”
“Exactly what I said, next topic.”
“This is the next topic.”
“Okay, then pass.”
“No passing. He doesn’t period or just not regularly?”
“The details of my sex life aren’t up for conversation.”
“I was hoping what you lacked in personality you’d make up in bed, but it appears you’re just as boring there too.”
“You’re an asshole; I happen to have both personality and a surprisingly interesting sex life.”
“Then surprise me.” He challenges, “Name one thing you do sexually that’s interesting. Leaving your clothes on during missionary doesn’t count.”
Fearing my cheeks are about to catch fire, I look away from him, crossing my arms over my chest, “This isn’t any of your business.”
“You’re mumbling.”
“I said, it’s none of your business.”
“The more you talk about Cal, the less I understand your affections towards him.”
“His name is Cole. C-O-L-E, Cole.”
“What kind of name is that anyway?”
“One with letters in it. Are we going to get to the point of today or not?”
“If it wasn’t obvious already, today’s topic is hair.” With that, he pulls a cardboard box from one of the stools lining his kitchen island and places it in my lap.
Opening it, I find maybe sixteen or seventeen bottles of stuff. “I’m confused.” I look up at him.
“Your homework is to use one product a day. I know you’re not a fan of spending a lot of time on your appearance,” His hand waves over me in an ‘obviously’ kind of way. “So, each product in there is for minimal maintenance, read the instructions and try them.”
“What’s the point?” I ask pulling a golden bottle out of the box; I draw it to my nose, oh that smells nice.
“Because men like hair. We like touching it, smelling it, and fantasizing about it. That mess you have checks none of those boxes.”
“Fantasizing? What kind of messed up fetishes are you into?”
“It’s not a fetish; we like picturing it wrapped around our fist while we’re nailing a girl from behind, imagining it against our thighs or splayed out across our pillows.”
I know my face is scrunched up, but I can’t seem to unscrew it, “Kay.”
Setting the bottle back into the box, I move everything to the floor at my feet.
“Don’t be a prude.” He scolds, “Sex is a big deal, you’re not fifteen anymore. People fuck, some dirtier than others, but everyone does it.”
“It’s not that I’m a prude, it’s just now every time I use one of these I’m going to be thinking that the goal is to have some guy fantasize about it.”
“It’s not like we walk down the street and imagine those things with every woman who walks by.” He laughs, “Once you know the person and begin exploring how you feel about her, that’s when that comes into play.”
“Yeah until I get a compliment and it’s all I’m able to think about.”
“A compliment is aiming a little high don’t you think? Let’s keep this realistic.”
I laugh, throwing a weak kick in his direction, “You’re such a dick.”
“But I get results. Trust me.”
Surprisingly, I think I do trust him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Walking into Logan’s house the following week, I twirl in a circle, showing off the new outfit I got. I’m in a black skater skirt with a daisy patterned shirt framed with a denim jacket. I even went so far as to wear black stockings and tall boots.
“You having a seizure?”
Stopping dead in my twirl I glare at him. “I bought this today, all by myself. I was thinking about wearing it this weekend for my birthday.”
He nods casually, “You should.”
“Yeah?” I smile wide, thankful for some form of approval.
“Sure. What product are you testing today?” He asks, referring to my hair.
“It’s that same one as yesterday.” I chew on my lip, “I know you want me to try them all, but I really like this one.” It’s a Wonder Wave spray; I just spritz my hair when it’s damp, and it pulls my natural waves forward, giving me a similar look to beach waves.
“If you’re happy with it you don’t have to use the others.”
My smile grows, “You're awfully nice today.”
“You said it was your birthday.” He shrugs it off.
“Not that I want you to stop being nice,” I start, moving to take my chair, “but my birthday’s this weekend, not today.”
“Same difference.”
I’m not even going to attempt to correct that; if he wants to be kind to me then I’m not going to complain, “So now that I have a hairstyle, clothes, and enough sitting and talking practice to last me a lifetime, are we moving up to T?”
He laughs like I made a joke, “No, we’ve made progress, but we’re not finished.”
“Ugh, what’s left?”
“I was going to wait, but I supposed today seems as good a day as any. Get your purse; we’re going on a field trip.”
Our field trip landed me in a salon chair. This is my ‘Birthday present’ from Logan. I’m not going to argue, I’ve always wanted a change, just never had any good ideas. I’m equal parts nervous and excited as the attendant asks what I want. Seeing as the closest I get to pampering is box dye, I tell her I don’t have a clue just that I have a hair product that I love and whatever style she chooses needs to be low maintenance. She gives me a confident nod and begins running her fingers through my curls.
A
fter a moment to herself, she dedicates the next hour to dousing my hair with sour chemicals, then wrapping my head, bangs to neck in tinfoil. I dare any alien who opposes me to come forward now; he doesn’t stand a chance at brain scrambling with this much aluminum.
The stylist is polite; she asks about my job, nodding and laughing along when I get a little too into the conversation about my favorite books, even asks for recommendations when she moves me to the sink.
The potency of the dye burns my nose when the foil is pulled from each section before being chased away by a heavenly floral shampoo. A head massage and rinse later I’m back in the chair.
At this point, I’m not sure if my hammering heart is from fear or joy when her scissors start snipping along the edges of my hair, she never did tell me what she was planning.
I watch her reflection with great interest; the swipe of the white comb, the beat of her scissors cutting into my wet hair.
When the scissors are replaced with a hair dryer I’m pleased with the lack of length she removed, my hair still falls just below my shoulders, but now I have multiple layers, creating a full and styled look rather than that lioness thing I usually have going on.
My hair begins to lighten under the dryer, thin honey lines appear next to chestnut locks, transforming my dull mousy hair into walkway model brown. I thoroughly love this.
I love it more when a woman opens a black trunk next to me, filled with every color polish and filing implements known to man. I choose a neutral shade and hand over my hand willingly as the next attendant approaches me with a tray of makeup. I have never been so spoiled in my life, and I’m giddy over it. So giddy in fact I welcome the idea of makeup, allowing her to demonstrate each product on the back of her hand before applying in thin, even coverage. I look like a fucking model; it’s a shame my birthday isn’t until this weekend because I feel like strutting myself everywhere right now.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When I’m finally released I smile at my flawless reflection before skipping over to Logan who waits in a leather chair; a magazine is draped over his knee and ankle.
“So?” I ask, wearing the smile that refuses to leave.
He blinks hard, “Wow.” My smile grows to the point of pain. “Very nice.”
Collecting his magazine from his lap, he drops it onto the table at his side before standing.
“Thank you for this.”
“Of course.”
I walk with him to the register running my hair through my silky locks.
“I take it you're pretty happy?” He asks, handing the woman a black card.
“Very much so.”
“Good, cause there’s one more thing. Thank you,” He says to the attendant before turning back to me.
“What’s that?” What’s left is what I should have said.
He doesn’t reply, simply smiles and nods to an angry looking granny in an apron.
I watch her approach like she’s about to eat my soul.
“She’s ready.” He tells her, his hand landing on my lower back, inching me forward.
“Ready for what?”
“We wax.” She says in a heavy German accent.
Remember that smile that wouldn’t go away? It’s gone, wiped from my face as horror takes over.
“What?!” I shriek, taking a step back.
He catches my arm, jerking me forward. “Brazilian.”
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head.
“Ignore her, First-time jitters.”
“More like fuck-you jitters, I’m not doing that.”
“This way.” She instructs, walking away.
“No, thank you.”
She reminds me of one of those teachers with a ruler and disdain for children.
“Now.” She orders, walking through a door, I can see the bed from my spot next to Logan.
“Not happening,” I turn on Logan.
“Do you want Chris back, yes or no?”
I scrunch my face up with a whine, “Yes, and it’s Cole.”
“Then get your ass in that room and clean that shit up, it’s a fire hazard.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Too bad. He’s gotta be able to find it to fuck it.”
“Gross. You’re such a dick.” I grumble, shouldering past him.
Entering into the small room my adrenaline has my heart racing, why did I come in here? I don’t want to do this, and I especially don’t want to do it with her.
“Use the wipe to clean the area; then you’ll remove your lower clothing and lay down with the towel over your waist.” Removing a towel from a cabinet, she sets it on top of the bed with a packet before leaving.
With shaky fingers, I kick out of my shoes while reaching under my skirt to hook my stockings and underwear then draw them down my legs. Grabbing the little packet from the bed, I put my back to the door in case she comes barging in while my ass is hanging out, and pull the wipe from its sleeve. I jerk at the chill of the pad while thoroughly cleaning every nook and cranny I can find, more out of nerves than cleanliness.
Depositing it into the trash, I lay stiffly on the bed. Folding my skirt onto my stomach, I seek the barely-there modesty of the towel. I might puke while laying here waiting for Hitler to waltz back in.
As if sensing my thoughts, the door opens. She doesn’t speak nor look in my direction when she comes in, simply shuts the door and starts to stir the little cylinder of wax.
She spins around abruptly, popping the back of my hand with hers. I withdraw at the strike and stare at her in shock; she is no-nonsense as she whips the towel to my chest, immediately spreading hot goo all over my crotch.
“Breathe.” She instructs.
I inhale before the worst pain in existence takes over.
“MARY MOTHER OF CHRIST.” I cry, trying to close my legs.
Broom Hilda will not be shaken that easily. She spears one of her boney elbows into my knee, forcing it down while the other hand smears the wax over the other side. She’s surprisingly strong for being so little. Another agonizing rip.
“FUCK! What did I ever do to you?!”
I swear to the man above the corner of her mouth just rose. She looks like the type to enjoy watching others suffer. I bet she’s one of those Madam’s who dresses her man up as a dog.
Throwing my head back I grunt and grit my teeth as another rip sounds in the room.
Pull after pull she goes, at this point I’m convinced she’s just ripping the entire thing off.
FINALLY, she smears oil over my burning bits, I blow out a tortured breath, too scared to look down at what I’m sure is the bloody remains of my vagina.
“Roll on your side.”
“For what?” I ask as she tries to twist my body.
“For the backside.”
“The backside of what?!” My eyes just might fall out of my head.
“The backside.” She slaps my thigh, and I bat away her hands, “Stop hitting me!”
She puts her hands on her hips, “Roll over.”
“The backside of what?”
“Your backside.”
“You want to wax my ass?” She nods curtly, “FUCK. NO.”
“Mr. Devitt said full wax.”
“Mr. Devitt can go fly a kite,” I say wrapping the towel around my waist, sitting up. “Wax my ass, are you kidding me? WHY? Why would anyone do that?”
She glares at me, refusing to answer.
Hobbling off the table, I open the door to see Logan seated in one of the fancy leather chairs again, he looks up and starts laughing, “My ass?!” I yell across the room.
He laughs harder, hiding his smile under his hand.
“How about you get in here and wax yours, huh? I’m sure Hitler’s mom would love that.”
“Just do it.” He tries to sound stern, but he’s still laughing.
“No! Why would anyone need to do that?”
“For a few reasons, none of which I’m sure you want to discuss while in a busy establishment.<
br />
For the first time, I realize everyone is staring at me. My cheeks burn as I slowly recoil back into the room.
“Lay down.”
“Fuck you, Adolph.” Grabbing my clothing off the counter, I start to put them on while keeping my eyes trained on the horrible little nazi. My crotch roars against the scratch of fabric.
Once they’re up, I throw the towel on the bed and sidestep the still angry troll woman.
Throwing the door open, I glare at Logan, “You’re on my shitlist!”
“Language.” He scolds, still trying to calm his smile. “It’s not ladylike.”
“Fuck your ladylike bullshit. I just got my soul ripped out of my hair follicles. You and I,” I point between our chests, “Not friends right now.”
“What if I buy you a cookie?”
I stop and glare, “If by cookie you mean a new vagina that doesn’t burn like the devil himself just went down on me, sure then we could be friends.”
“Two cookies?” He shows me two fingers, “Two big cookies.”
“Is that an innuendo?”
“Nope.”
“They better be the best damn cookies of my life.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
My vagina eventually stopped burning. I’m sure it was quite a sight for Amy when she came home Tuesday to see me laying on the couch with a bag of ice pressed between my legs. Of course, she had a good laugh at my expense when I told her I was ready to hit the streets looking like the pretty penny I’m sure Logan spent before what I’m naming as, ‘the event,’ happened. Instead, my night was spend icing my crotch and eating cookies.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Amy squeals, rushing out of her bedroom to lay on top of me.
I grunt under her weight. “Thanks,”
“Are you going to Logan’s today?” She asks, rolling off me.
“No, he’s out of town until Monday.”
“So what are you going to do today?”
“Edit probably. With all the time I spend with Logan, I keep falling behind.”
“That sounds boring; you’re not supposed to work on your birthday.”
“You’ve gotta work, Logan’s working, oh look, I’m all out of friends to spend the day with.”