Pain is Beauty

As I was suffering steadily on the second evening of a substantial cold, the usual parameters of the spa and the experience of getting what ladies in modern society refer to as the “bikini wax”, something that, due to my ethnicity combining pre-colonially at a crossroads between Slavic, Mediterranean and possible Near Eastern aspects (mostly thanks to the roving and raping Ottoman Empire utilizing the rule that Croatian women under their rule had to sleep with the local Princely ruler first on her wedding night), was an accepted fate of my visage, over and under. It was routine to me now, so much so that I could almost gage to the minute just how long it would take, and usually I would be in and out of there in about 15 minutes or so, when there wasn’t a delay. As usual, on this rainy Wednesday evening, very well put together Manhattan women of mostly under 50’s wandered to and from the place, neat and pressed khaki coloured rain coats and not a cat hair or a wayward fold in their outfits. One was carefully strategizing her next beauty appointments pre-vacation, first asking if the 11th of May would work, since she is going away on the 13th – to that, the older, Slavic woman with short spiky blond hair behind the very demure counter, all plums and products, tried to book her in on that day, “as early as 11” she could take her, to which the woman reconsidered and pushed for something closer to 1pm. I was waiting a slightly longer time, staring up and down the walls of products which I could never afford, thinking about how when you need certain things, and oh so many certain things with lovely, syllabically lyrical names and packaging, wherein you have no idea what it does, but damn, it looks like it does something pretty amazing what with the pin up girl drawn on the front label, in thick black strokes, all Jane Russell and lips puckered, when you need more things like –that-, you would keep needing them, wouldn’t you. And then that might lead to more routine, and ritualistic purchases and scheduled appointments and no wonder life seemed full up with this stuff for these women – they depended on it. I stuck to my bare and main necessities, and blew my nose repeatedly, feeling slightly less attractive while doing so.

The small corner couch that was L shaped wasn’t comfortable for women to be packed in to, so two different women were taking up two separate spots, spreading out their high end beauty and lifestyle magazines around then. There were a selection of short, round cushion chairs with no backs, which I put myself to – along with the rain and the sick making me feel like a washerwoman who had no business in this place of expensive products and finely coiffed society women (even though I had been a regular for almost 7 years now – the root of my ethnic line not bowing out of the game easily), I had sat on the round cushion chair facing the hall, where the women in white, Polish mostly (I wondered repeatedly why that breed of women all in all were the majority of those who liked to rip the hair off of, in and around the privates of various paying customers – and how does one find that profession?) would come out and say the client’s name, slightly muddled in their strong accents but with the alacrity of a doctor about to perform a life saving or life-changing operation. In my sitting, I sat with my legs apart, in the world between straddling and not, and was very comfortable, but the seated style made me feel further like I was less than they were. Like I was the street beggar in some early Victorian novel, squatted with my bustle up in my face, hoping to make a few pound for the family I had procured at a young and decent age. Finally, out came a woman with blond, curly hair, in her mid to late 40’s. She was not my regular – Rena. Rena looked like a teenager, though had two kids and always complained at me about them, her house, cleaning it, going (or not going) on vacation – she was a young woman with an old woman’s life and spirit. Over the years I had gotten used to her conversations and complaints, and how they merged with so much ease, with her style (fast, un-invasive, ending with the legs up in yoga-type mode –when one felt the height of humiliation and/or ridiculousness at this act which one put oneself through, while paying money to do so!) and just the general feeling a woman has with another woman seeing her 95% of the time with no pants on. Comfortable. But, as of late, schedules had forced me into taking whoever was available on Wednesdays and Thursdays when Rena wasn’t in. Once or twice, one of the “other women” (it did feel like I was having an affair – I would have to apologize to Rena, when I saw her again, and accept her further complaints about the job that the “other woman” did – she would ask me, addressing me with an added “anka” at the end of my name, which was such a prevalent and regular part of my day to day life that a few years back, the man I was with at the time started calling me by this name, which now afforded it a sort of bittersweet nostalgia, bitter or sweet depending on the day and memory of course) stuck in my mind, and as this woman came down the hall, I knew she was one of them, my other women. She said with force as if she knew me so well – my name, with the “anka” at the end of it, which surprised me – was this a Polish thing or were she and Rena sitting behind closed doors, sipping coffees on their break and comparing clientele over bar chart analyses and projected hair growth?

She was thrilled to see me – and I knew I was in for it. What the “it” was, was not known just yet. She instructed me specifically to not leave my coat on the floor near the door (the room had thrown me off – in all my years it was not one I had ever been in before), since she would be standing there at some point (she never did). Secondly, she stayed in the room with me, while I stripped down bottoms wise. It wasn’t all that strange – nothing in the doing of it would reveal anything she wouldn’t be seeing as it was, nor hadn’t seen before, but somehow there was something a little unsettling about taking your boots off, and rolling down the tights that you had bought when they read “leggings” but you knew now that they were just tights. There was something freeing about sitting at a job you know you didn’t belong at, with the knowledge that you weren’t Really wearing any pants. Still, you were out of it sick-wise, so all of this might prove to be a dream in betwixt tossing and turning and trying to clear your sinuses up. You set yourself on the table, the paper making the scratchy, elevated noise it always does, remarking on how you’re wearing the perfect shirt dress for “this”. She is all business, but acts like she and I are old friends, and asking about my upcoming trip to Europe, and airfares and such. It hurts more than usual, I feel, and she tersely reminds me of the breathing exercise she taught me, which, as she mentions it, all comes back to me, though I think it couldn’t have been more than once or twice when I had her as my “attendant” – breath in deep with her, and then fast exhale when she did the ripping. My growingly stuffed nose found this level of work slightly taxing, as I tried to breath in and then out with each and every rip – whereas my good friend Rena wasn’t seemingly pleased nor disgusted at the job she did attending to the privates of ladies the city over, this woman seemed to clearly be enjoying herself with each new rip and tear. She peppered this very forward and direct action with somewhat forward and oddly chosen (for the times during with they were spoken read having no pants on under bright lights) compliments – She told me to life up my left leg (which Rena wouldn’t do, as she always had this method of having the one leg supinate in a V shape, which afforded her the right angle to make it happen), adding my “beautiful left leg” which forced me into another self effacing statement, of what exact detail I cannot recall. Then, the breathing started again and I was so good at it apparently, that she began to say “good girl” every time I breathed right, and she ripped – she must have said “good girl” at least twelve times during the 15 minute session. When I was face down, and asked her if I should “hold” the buttock area for her, she remarked with all manner of directness, for which I had recognized in her in this short time – “you know I am assertive and say what I need. If I needed you to do that, you think I wouldn’t tell you?” To which I laughed and she followed with “you think I would just suffer in silence?” We chuckled again, and I said quietly “it’s my job to suffer in silence”. She enjoyed the wittiness of that, and then went to work on that side of things. Something felt strange, however, about lying prone, and having her repeat the “good girl” remark, quieter and more intimately. I felt slightly vulnerable there, but then again who doesn’t feel vulnerable face down with a Polish woman further into your ass cheeks that you ever really want a Polish woman? I somehow got into the “stance” if you will of holding my left leg (the “beautiful one”) against the tile wall, to give her better leeway and this did not add to my sense of dignity nor ladylike qualities in any way.

It ended in the same way it did with Rena – the legs up and over, except she emphasized widening then versus the totally up and over quality that I was used to with Rena. She brought me back down aways, and remarked that she loved watching flexible people – to which I added the last of my self effacing remarks about always have flexibility, even when not exercising. While I said these words, I couldn’t help but be slightly creeped out by her flexible people remark. I was glad this experience was rounding down. It ended with one more direct jab at my vulnerability, when she lotioned up that which she had ripped, sewn and tuckered out – somehow, Rena was able to get said lotion everywhere it needed to go, without any feeling of invasiveness, but not my friend here. She really worked those hands of her farther along and about the things than one would expect from a technician of her variety. I suppose it was her duty to defrock me mentally one last time before the night was out. She told me to enjoy my trip and there was a moment wherein I felt like she was expecting a hug, but lying then, pants still off, skin all lotioned up, I just wanted her to get out so I could get dressed, pay up and get the hell home. I’d admit she does a fine, fine job in her work, but it was all so different than what I was used to. On the way out, in making the next of appointments which would stretch into infinity or death, I was asked if I wanted the appointment with Mariola (her name finally! Oddly familiar but all I could think of in a 12 year old boy’s mind which was mine at that moment was Areola and how it was nearly fitting for her name to at least resemble and rhyme with said nipple vocabulary)…I had to explain that I was used to going to Rena, so I’ll choose Rena next time and go between the two, laughing like I had to juggle these Polish women between my legs and in my wallet for years to come. When all was said and done, I hurried off through the light rain, blowing my nose and feeling that oh-so-awkward feeling of lotion in between ass cheeks, as I descended the subway stairs and got myself home. Sick as a dog, but smooth as a baby’s behind in springtime.

M. Lucia