I make my call. Covert. Standing in the laundry room with the dryer doing its airy spin, muffling my voice.
Later that afternoon I glance over both shoulders, then hop quickly into the car. I drive south, find the building along old railroad tracks that don’t get used much anymore.
Head bowed, I stride inside and give my name.
A woman named Tara greets me. She tells me to remove my coat and lie down on a cot, face up.
She shines a hot light in my face and proceeds to slather wax over the edges of my eyebrows. She yanks hard. I grin. I love the whole process. The warm paraffin, the sting, the cool lotion they rub in afterward.
But I feel guilty too. The shameful waste of money. The gross connotation of a richy woman with so much time on her hands she can engage in such things. What’s so wrong with tweezers, after all?
Except, with tweezers, there’s no warmed bed, no soothing music or efficient ripping out of all the little hairs I hate. There’s only me, hunched over the sink, plucking under an insufficient bulb.
So I suffer the guilt. Pay with cash. Skulk out, large sunglasses covering my reddened skin, hoping the next six weeks pass quickly so I can do it all again.