It’s never too early to have self-esteem
I’ve been a little overwhelmed here lately, which is part of the reason it’s been so tumbleweedy in these parts. Overwhelmed, and also quite a bit sick of myself. Aren’t all of you sick of myself, too? I certainly wouldn’t blame you. Nevertheless, I’m pushing past it.
And so: A story.
Ruby had her first hair cut on Friday the 13th. I don’t know what the big deal is with that date; I always have such great Friday the 13ths. Sure, this one was a particularly bad one if you were Tim Russert. But lucky for me, I wasn’t and I’m not and so my Friday the 13th, 2008 was lovelier than any other day of the week leading up to it.
So there we were in the hair salon where Amber, my stylist, sat Ruby atop two stacked bundles of towels and tipped her head back into the u-shaped lip of the sink. Ruby rolled with it like an old pro, not saying a word—just giving into it—while Amber began to wet and then wash her hair, massaging first the shampoo and then conditioner into her scalp. I think this kid will be quite at home in the salons of the world.
I stood to the side while Amber used her knuckles to knead Ruby’s head. Her curls—stretched long and drenched in bubbles—spiraled with the running water and stuck to the sides of the sink bowl, fanning out behind her in rippling waves. Each blink of her eyelids slowed until she was nearly catatonic. From my hovering view, Ruby looked as though her eyes were closed but with her head tilted slightly to the right, she was peering down her nose, watching everything in the mirrored wall across the room.
She was quiet except for when I moved to kiss her and blocked her line of sight. She scolded me and waved me away with a fling of her right arm and returned to staring at herself, taking big, silent breaths, her nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly. Then, without moving her eyes from herself, she exhaled to the rhythm of Amber’s handiwork and said, “I’m beaUUUtiful, Mama.” The nearly-whispered words floated on her sigh in such a delicate way as to make me wonder if they’d actually been spoken. But they had been. And they captured perfectly the ecstasy I feel when I stare at her lovely face.
“That’s right, baby,” I said. “You are beautiful. And don’t you ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
All growed up
Thanks to a Sudanese woman I met at a local farmer’s market last week, Ruby got her hair done today and we have no combing for two weeks! I know I just wrote about how important and meaningful that time is for me but, to be honest, combing my child’s hair has been extra challenging lately and I felt that we both needed a little break.
Ruby sat on my lap while Agnes put the braids in. At first, Ruby was very still and concentrated. But by the third braid—there are ten of them all around her head—her face began to twist and her eyes filled so slowly with thick silvery tears, that I almost thought she was faking. She pressed her face into my neck and began to whimper and then sob quitely, stiffling her breath like an adult attempting to hide the fact that she’s crying. It was so weird; I’ve never seen her like that.
She tried so hard not to cry, my big girl. But eventually she gave herself over to it and she wailed her way through, clutching desperately at my neck, calling for me and then her father. It was heartbreaking. But she remained on my lap and as soon as the last braid was in, the tears stopped. She asked to see the back and later, when the ribbon fell out, she made me put it back in.
When we got home, I was the one who cried as she got herself out of the car and sashayed into the house in the confident way that she does, shoulders back, arms swinging. She looked regal and stunninng and so much older than she is.
A Long Embarassing Story That Has No Business A) Being Read By Children or B) Being Posted On A Blog
Summer is here, which means it’s time for layer-shedding, swimsuits and, for me, relationship restoration. Whether you’re gay or straight or bi or whatever, I have two words that will spice up your life: bikini wax.
Until last year, my experience with this barbaric ritual had been limited to four occasions. The first was when I let the mother of my college boyfriend test out her new home-waxing kit on me while I was laying on the gold-speckled linoleum of her kitchen floor wearing only my bikini bottom. She’d begged me for some time to give myself over to her tongue depressor and I’d obstinately refused. That is, until she walked in on me having sex with her son, a trauma for which the only reasonable salve was hot wax on my flesh. With the hope that we would never again mention either event, I agreed to act as guinea pig for her latest hobby and—beside some minor burns—it wasn’t too painful.
The other three exposures occurred in the months preceding my wedding when I visited an overrated spa in La Jolla, where a large woman wielding an indecipherable eastern bloc accent pulled my underwear to the side just enough to expose the area on which she focused her depilatory efforts. Again, the pain was minor.
Then last autumn, on the recommendation of my friend, Jessica, I went to Devra’s Skin Therapy & Spa for a professional bikini wax. Jessica swore by Devra’s pain minimizing magic and then, after convincing me of her powers, she mentioned that Devra also happened to be “the most beautiful woman in the world.” Given my intention of having a professional aid my personal grooming habits, I had shunned the razor and allowed myself in the preceding weeks to morph into a ’70s era porn star. The thought of anyone seeing me nude, especially a 21st century super model, nearly caused me to reconcile with my Gillette Sensor Excel. But my husband had sunken to making daily jokes at the expense of my vajungle. Terrifically humiliated, I thought, I’ll show him! And I made an appointment immediately following Jessica’s.
My friend spent less than five minutes in the candle-lit, incense-infused room with Devra, a tall, sable-haired beauty with a dimple in one cheek and a smile so gleaming she could cause a stampede of Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders at the local Piggly Wiggly, each more viciously clawing the next for the limited stockpile of Crest Whitening Strips. Indeed, The Most Beautiful Woman In The World escorted a beaming Jessica, complete with her $50 Bald Eagle, back to the waiting area. My friend bounced happily past me as I bounced happily past her, heartened by the prospect of a five-minute procedure. Five minutes?!? I thought. Piece of cake. A quick admonition for any first-timers: Be ye not so naïve.
I decided against the dramatic Bald Eagle and opted instead for a Chaplinesque design. Then I faced Madame Divinity and learned my first lesson for the day: There are, in fact, stupid questions.
“So…do I need to take off my underwear?” I realized as the words spilled from my mouth that the lawn art I’d selected required as much.
“Yes,” Devra smiled at me as I yammered nervously about how I don’t normally look like this but I’d been planning on getting waxed and was growing out the blah blah blah. “It’s okay,” she gently interrupted with her glittering smile. “Seriously. It’s no big deal. We’re both girls. We have all the same parts.” Right. Except for the cheekbones. Other than that, we’re exactly alike.
With this news flash, I feigned confidence, dropped trou and climbed onto the table where I lay supine in the most natural state of rigor mortis I could manage, wearing nothing but goose bumps and my khaki J. Crew tank top.
After the initial strips of cloth had been adhered with wax, sufficiently matted down against my skin and then violently ripped away, Ms. DeGorgeous began giving me specific instructions, which is how I gleaned lesson No. 2: Bikini waxing, like democracy, is a participatory event.
The next few minutes were spent with me holding this here and pulling that there and keeping it all very taut. I had to grab behind each knee, pulling my legs back one at a time, fully exposing my lady parts so that The Embodiment of Radiance could remove, with pinpoint accuracy, any needlessly straggling…stragglers. Which brings me to lesson No. 3: There is no authentic bikini wax with “minor pain.” This fucking hurt.
Let me just say here that images of a convulsing Steve Carell were playing out behind my squeezed-shut eyes. That man was not method-acting the red welts or Tourette-like outbursts portrayed in The Forty Year Old Virgin. My tank top was soaked in sweat, and twice I started to laugh a hard, guttural, completely involuntary laugh of hysterics because that’s all I could do short of leaping off the table and cowering in the corner with my legs entwined around each other. All the while, La Beauty Personified was giggling in solidarity, moving right along, getting in there so to speak, giving me a much needed—mound makeover.
This apparently massive effort culminated in DeLovely’s proposition to do The Flip. In other words, she offered the opportunity to wax my “wolfhole” as it’s so delicately categorized by Urban Dictionary (look it up). It was an awkward moment, to say the least, but I’d left shame on the floor where nobody could see it, folded up in my pants like hidden undies at the gynecologist’s office. To flip or not to flip, that was the question and a fork in the road such as this demanded an expert opinion.
“Really? You think that would make a difference?” I asked.
“Well, let me just say that your husband will love it.”
I weighed her statement for a second. “Okay…I guess it’s all just cocktail-party chatter for you, anyway.” The Goddess Almighty laughed again.
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe what people ask me about my job.” No, I thought, I probably wouldn’t. And, anyway, right now? I’d rather not think about you discussing my southern hemisphere over a glass of merlot and goat cheese crudités.
“Alright,” Devra said. “So what you’ll need to do is roll over onto all fours and then, one at a time, pull your butt cheeks back for me.”
All of this came with some degree of gesticulation on her part so that I wouldn’t misunderstand my assignment, no pun intended. And—vóila—lesson No. 4 (or rather the debunking of a long-held belief of mine): The ass waxing was the least painful part of the whole endeavor.
A mere 20-minutes after this humbling process began, the job was complete and damn if it didn’t look good—minus the swelling and puffiness of course, which goes away in a day or so. The physical pain vanished almost as soon as I’d handed over the greenbacks but the mortification continued when Devra explained to Jessica—as if it were the most natural thing in the world—that it was my thicker, coarse hair as opposed to her very few fine ones, that required a more vigorous effort and lengthy appointment.
I rocked my bikini later that week and my 10-year relationship was reinvigorated. In the end (!), I’d highly recommend giving it a try. For the season. For your lover. For a change. I promise: the positive results far outweigh the temporary discomfort and humiliation.