There’s a knock on the door. I smooth out the white robe I’ve been given over my lap. Crap. No time.
A pretty esthetician with her hair in a tight bun comes into the room. She looks like she could be my mother, which is both reassuring and awkward at the same time. Please be gentle with me. I’m a wax virgin.
“Felicity?” she asks, looking down at the paper I filled out at the front desk.
“Yeah,” I say and swallow hard. The smell of the wax fills the air and my thighs clench shut on their own accord. I’m nervous as fuck and feel like I’m about to get a PAP smear or something invasive like that. Though, in the end, that’ll probably hurt less.
“You forget check box,” she says in a thick Russian accent. I can hardly understand her. “You want backside wax too?”
“Uh, sure,” I say. After an hour-long debate Monday night, I decided to call and make an appointment today for a wax after getting my hair dyed back to its original color of brunette. That way I won’t have to worry about shaving or having an unsightly bikini line while on the lake. And I thought it might be a nice surprise for Ben when he sees me tomorrow night, since his head is frequently between my legs.
And I hate shaving with a passion.
“First wax?” she says and sets the paper down.
I nod.
“Relax. Pain over quick.”
“Okay. If you say so.”
I lay back and squeeze my eyes closed. I’m about to freak the fuck out. Over a wax. Get it together, Felicity. I need to channel my inner Black Widow. Pretend I’m being tortured for info. Yes, that works. I’ll think about how utterly messed up that is later.
The esthetician puts on gloves and gets to work. My fingers dig into the foam bed as she cleanses my skin, dries it, and preps for the wax. My heart is pounding when the hot wax is spread onto my skin.
The strip goes on next.
Holy crap, pain is coming. I start the countdown in my head. Three, two—she pulls that sucker right off. Oh, that wasn’t so bad. I let out a breath. She spreads more wax on my skin and rips up another section of hair. I’m tempted to look but, having the feeling it will resemble something torn off Chewbacca, I don’t to save myself the embarrassment. I had to forgo shaving all week to get this wax.
It takes longer than I anticipated, and when I’m told to roll over and spread my thighs, the realization that “backside” means “butt crack” hits me like a sucker punch to the stomach and I’m so stunned I can’t do anything but lay there in terror and hope I don’t fart.
I leave feeling smooth, sore, and just a little violated. My skin begins to burn as the fabric from my panties and jeans rubs against it, and by the time I get home it’s on fire and super itchy.
Then I realize the lotion put on after the waxing was scented. I’m okay with scented stuff most of the time.
Most. Of. The. Time.
Freshly waxed, fragile skin plus a history of eczema and psoriasis going back years isn’t most of the time. Damn it. I rip my clothes off as soon as I get through the door and run to the shower to wash off what I can.
I pause in front of the mirror while the water is warming up and stare in horror at my bikini line. It’s red as hell. Yes, definitely a reaction to the scented lotion. This is the exact opposite of what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to make my fun zone more fun. Not angry and red, like it wants to kill anything that enters it.
I open my medicine cabinet and pop a Benadryl in my mouth, then get into the shower, taking a drink from the water streaming down to swallow the pill. I stand in the warm water, scared to touch my irritated skin, but curious as to how smooth it feels, and feel considerably better when I get out. I slather on cortisone cream, pull on a thigh-length nightgown, foregoing undies all together, and go into the kitchen to make dinner. I call Erin while my mac n’ cheese is cooking and tell her about my poor lady bits and how I was too terrified to even think of being allergic to scented shit.
She can’t stop laughing. A best friend, yes she is.
I eat, then crash into bed, feeling sleepy from the Benadryl. I watch a few episodes of The Big Bang Theory, get up to brush my teeth, check on my skin—yep, still red—and take one more Benadryl in hopes that I’ll wake up better.
It almost works.
I sleep through my alarm. I’m a lightweight when it comes to anything, and two Benadryls knocks me out. I half ass my hair and makeup, wear a flowy dress and my granniest panties to avoid any chaffing during the day, and take one more Benadryl since I’m looking better. I’ll counter act it with coffee and be fine once it wears off by midday.
I pack a lunch, feed Ser Pounce, and try my best not to fall asleep while driving. I trudge into the office and plop into my desk.
“Oh, like the new hair color!” Mariah says.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Are you okay?”
“In a sense, yes. I had an allergic reaction to something and the Benadryl is making me so tired.”
I stash my purse under my desk and fire up my computer. “I just need a few hours for it to get out of my system then I’ll be fine.”
“You’re making me worried, honey,” she says, sounding motherly. Do I look that bad? “Maybe you should go home and get some rest.”
That is a great idea, but I can’t ask to go home because of this. I blink several times, trying to get my head out of this fog. I didn’t bring coffee with me since I didn’t have time to make any. I push my shoulders back and walk to the break room.
There are fresh donuts on the table. I could kiss whoever brought them. I take two, and fill a cup with coffee, mixing in creamer. I run into Cameron on my way back to my desk.
“Sexy color,” he says and touches my hair, then he flicks his eyes to my face. “Rough night?” he asks.
“You could say that.”
“The boy toy?”
“Hah, I wish.” I take a sip of coffee; I think I need an IV of it today. “Uh, actually I got a wax and then had a reaction to the lotion. It’s pretty painful and rashy. I overdosed on Benadryl.”
Cameron looks at me with a blank face. Then he busts out laughing. “That would only happen to you.”
“Shut up,” I say dryly. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s hilarious.” His face gets serious. “How bad of a reaction? Do you need to see a doctor or anything?”
“Nah,” I say and take another drink of coffee. “The redness is almost gone, thank God. I’m just so fucking tired.”
He gives me a watch-your-mouth-at-the-office glare. “Why didn’t you call in sick? You look terrible.”
“Thanks, and I’m not sick. I didn’t even think of it, really.” I sigh, feeling the drugs pull me back. “I should have.”
He crosses his arms. “You know, you’ve never taken a sick day since you’ve been here. You won’t be behind if you take the rest of the day off.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. You can do some work from home anyway, right?”
“I can, and I don’t have much to do with this current site anyway. The client is out of town for the holiday so we can’t go over anything I’ve done for approval.”
“Then go home. Get some rest and ice your cooter.”
“Don’t say it so loud.”
He’s laughing again. “Sorry. Really, I am. Now go, get some sleep and have a good weekend.”
“You too.”
“Oh, I will. Adam’s sister’s husband’s family has a house in the Hamptons. We’re flying out right after work.”
“Classy. Sounds really fun though. I’m kinda jealous,” I lie. From what I know about that area—granted, it’s all from TV shows and movies—is that it’s too fancy for my liking. Feeling grateful for befriending my boss the week I started here, I go back to my desk, shut down my computer, and gather my things. I say bye to Mariah on my way out and consider calling Ben, but decide not to.
I don’t want to tell him why I’m leaving early, and I’d really like to go home and crash for a few hours before packing and getting dressed. Deciding to forego the rest of my coffee, I get into bed right away.