Page 90 of Renegade

November 2014

“Apply the wax in a thin layer in the same direction as the hair growth,” I read before taking a drink from the bottle of pinot noir sitting on the bathroom counter. I hadn’t bothered with dirtying a glass because I was all class, all the time.

It was Mike’s birthday and I was supposed to have been lying on my back with my legs spread like a frog’s, but my esthetician, Annie canceled on me at the last minute.

Faced with the prospect of having to dig out the razor blade or tell him he was going to be taking a trip to the safari for his birthday gift, I decided to give at-home waxing a whirl.

I rushed over to the pharmacy after work and grabbed what I needed before driving out to his place. He was going to be getting off at seven, so that left me with a little under two hours to de-hair myself.

Forty-five minutes and half a bottle of wine later, I was starting to second guess the wisdom in that decision. But Mike had gone to great lengths ensuring that my birthday was special, the least I could do was make sure that my ‘girl’ was in presentable party clothes for his.

Propping my leg up on Mike’s bathroom counter, I took the popsicle stick of wax and applied it to my skin in a thin layer, just like the instructions said. “Thirty seconds to harden,” I said as I skimmed over the next section, “and then pull off in the opposite direction of hair growth.”

Easy peasy.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror and immediately had to look away. No wonder they charged so much for these—the view was…something else.

Feeling like thirty seconds had come and gone, I lifted the bottom edge of the wax and quickly yanked it up and off. I exhaled slowly and contorted my body to reveal my handiwork.

Not bad.

I didn’t need an esthetician and eighty dollars. I was going to retain my dignity and do my own waxing from here on out.

I got through the next three sections without issue and realized that I was making excellent time. My plan was to be in his bed with a bow wrapped around me in the next half hour. I had Chinese take-out in the fridge downstairs andSaving Private Ryanwaiting in the DVD player.

As I waited for the next section to harden, I ran my eyes over the instruction sheet and saw at the bottom in bold letters,NEVER use on nipples, perianal, vaginal/genital areas, or on hairs inside nostrils, ears or on eyelids/eyelashes.

Jesus, who would be stupid enough to put it on their eyelashes?I used my fingernail to lift the bottom edge of the wax just as a door slammed downstairs.

Oh no.

He wasn’t supposed to be home for another hour. I hurriedly yanked the wax off of the lip area and threw it into the trash can.Was that red?

A soft knock sounded at the bathroom door.

“Um, just give me a second.”

I glanced down to see blood dripping steadily from the newly waxed area. That never happened with Annie. Just as I was trying to work out how much blood loss was dangerous; the door flew open. I jumped back in fright, slipping in the puddle that had formed near my feet. Covering myself with my hands, I fell back on my ass as the older woman clutched the door frame for support.

“Who the hell are you?” She shrieked.

I glanced furtively around the bathroom for something to cover up with. “Um…could you just give me a minute? Please?”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Let me guess, he blew you off so you’ve broken in to get your revenge?” Her eyes dropped down to me and she finally noticed the blood. “Good lord, did you cut your wrists? Are you going allFatal Attractionon him now? Got a bunny boiling on the stove downstairs?”

Well, she was just a barrel of sunshine.

I snagged a washcloth from the cabinet and held it on my lady-bits, trying to retain some sense of modesty. “I had a mishap with some wax and if you must know, there is no bunny boiling on the stove because I can’t cook. Also, I’m Mike’s girlfriend.”

I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to point out my culinary skills before my relationship status, but I was losing blood at an alarming rate. I couldn’t be held responsible for anything I said at this point.

Her eyes widened. “Girlfriend? You’ve got to be joking. Michael doesn’t have a girlfriend!”

I narrowed my eyes. “And who the fuck are you that you know so much about Mike’s social life?”

Her hand shot up onto her hip. “I’m his mother, Betsy.”

Oh, fuck.

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