As I waited for more than 45 minutes in the Good Friday nail salon rush to get my "facial wax," it occurred to me that I'm not really cut out to be feminine. There were many, many places I would rather have been than perched upon a crooked wicker chair watching fat ladies get their callouses filed while I waited my turn. The dainty wax artist said "oh my! You have lots of hair!" as she reached for extra white fabric strips and a spare wax dipper.
I looked down at my scabby knuckles and ruined fingernails, stared at the bite scare on my right hand from a rugby match years ago and wondered why people think I'm such a masochist as a complete stranger ripped half the skin off my upper lip. All around me, women were getting their cuticles trimmed, men shoved sharp objects down inside people's toenails, and were spreading melted wax on people's faces. The only difference between Happy Nails and a rugby field is the red liquid ends up on your nails, not your jersey.
"You look much better now!" my wax artist told me, then giggled as my skin flared red immediately. She disposed of my eyebrows and rubbed baby oil on my face before sending me on my way. I had to trudge a mile home through the Rainbow and Rue21 shoppers with a screaming red face, very obviously leaving a facial wax session. The hot dog guy on Penn Avenue felt bad for me. I know it. I can't decide if it's better to present myself to Corey's family this weekend with a hairless face I paid dearly for in wait time and blood money or a black eye I earned enjoying myself in Boyce Park.