Why Getting Waxed for the Holidays Won’t Keep You Seasonably Clean
I let those brows grow beyond the line of reason. Disorganized edges with the stray silver strand, aggressively makes your early morning wake up call particularly hard to tolerate. That’s never a good way to head into a meeting that will hopefully keep you gainfully employed in the system that has been geared to make America Great Again.
I felt like shit when I left my sublet and entered the Uber driver’s lair with two other occupants who looked liked they were dressed for the exact same regimen I had signed up for.
Temp agencies are fun — only if you have a varied sense of humor.
I’m varied and complicated, so I have the appetite for the kind of stuff that could end the laugh track of an over-wrought comedic script. I always laugh my way through shit. I mean, I can’t cry anymore because your tear ducts dry up with age. Did you know that? Of course not!
The meeting went well. The agents were nice and during the process of signing up — it was established that I had submitted to the same treatment a decade ago when I was in New York after leaving L.A. and hoping to be forgiven for my ill-attempt to seek refuge in a state populated with palm trees for greener pastures.
The concrete jungle welcomed me back with a column of mandates that I fulfilled but it was still not enough to save me from necessary punishment.
So, here I am. Laid back in a chair with a pillow halfway down my neck. Waiting to feel the heat of the wax and the strokes that will get my brows back in form. I’m used to the routine. It’s not enjoyable even in the best of circumstances — but because my hairs are rough and tough — the pulling and plucking tends to require my ability to stay still and not wish that I had retained my original shape.
As the process was underway — the conversation happening around and without me continued as it always does. The laughter and the high-pitched voices drown me as usual but I would rather take it over the annoying Christmas tunes that harass me each time I submit to services rendered.
They are all Asian — and very determined to keep their customers satisfied and I don’t mind because I need have my brows shaped for the benefit of keeping the job that will allow me to leave my sublet at the end of the month as I settle into another space that won’t hold me for longer than I desire.
As she halfway secures my right brow and moves to the left she pushes for permission to wax off my upper lip.
When I offer my usual response she takes it even further, “You got to do your lip for the holiday!”
I smiled and replied with an emphatic “No.”
Then it hit me. The holidays are a special time for most of you. This is when you present your best selves. You’ve spent the entire year grooming for this moment. Some of us worked hard and the results are evident in the over-stuffed stockings and the halls that provide seasonal cheer to less than fortunate relatives. Some of us worked harder but, somehow ended up with the shorter end of the stick, which forces us to bloat our achievements and give the performance of a lifetime in a bid to hide disappointments and uncertainties.
The rest of us don’t give a fuck about the holidays and prefer to assume robotic tendencies until the generic need to say ‘Happy New Year!” to strangers finally becomes thankfully unnecessary.
The thing about social media is that it gives us permission to convince hungry users that we are doing exactly what we are supposed to do at the exact time we were prompted to do so.
Look at us decorating the massive tree — filled with tokens and childhood props. Watch us whip up baked goods that will be served to the ones who love us but are in the dark about our present disposition. Pay attention to the gifts that litter our living room and the fireplace that burns hotter than the secrets that won’t be dispelled because the holidays are for lies.
We have to be perfect at the time that demands it. The lit up streets and the neighborhood abodes competing for the attention of drive by revelers is just the icing on the cake. The office parties that force co-workers to drunkenly bond with each other against their will while bosses take bets on whether or not they picked the hottest assistant.
After my brows were adequately trimmed and paid with a smile — I walked out feeling perfectly in tune with the my version of the current climate that wants to force my hand in ringing the silver bells that will alert Santa my way.
I hate Santa Claus and I don’t need to recite verses that sound more like the record that skips every time you jump up with glee when your favorite song finally hits.
I am waxed but the season won’t save me or you — or anybody who does what they need to do in order to feel accepted or lauded by the ones that need to be reassured of their verified status.
My current disposition is well flossed and waxed but deep down inside — I am fearful and confused. I am hopeful and yet, when the phone rings I grab it with measured expectations. I am not twirling in designer duds with the assistance of a man that looks good in my arms but will soon be far away from me.
I won’t be the relative that gives you a run down of how 2016 was so good to me and why 2017 will be even better — because the holidays…
I am not seasonably clean. I am dirty with the sewage of life.