pluck me

the girl that waxes my eyebrows, she tells me she's half cuban.
i tell her all the girls i meet here seem to be half cuban.
i tell her i have personal space issues.
i tell her i don't like leaning back in the chair with someone hovering over me.
no offense, i say. it's not about you. and it's certainly not about the pain--does it hurt much?--but i just don't like having anybody in my space.
in that chair, i babble and babble. i’ll say anything when i’m not sure of myself.
this whole thing, it's worse than a haircut but not as bad as the dentist.

how i end up here is a bunch of different things. first, my ex wife, the good one, on my last visit to colorado, she told me i ought to get my eyebrows waxed. she's always trying to get me into some kind of condition where some poor girl will accidentally fall in love with me and remove some ill defined feeling of guilt from my ex wife's conscience.
anyway, she tells me this: get your eye brows waxed.

and i considered it before, with the second now ex wife, who was obsessed with hair removal, who used to visit (probably still does) a doctor with a laser, but since she took her clothes off professionally i guess you'd call that a business expense.

these ex's, they get hair on my brain.

and so i've meaning to do it. i don't know what for. some kind of preparation. maybe for the Apocalypse, Yeah, ok, he can come in--sharp eye brows, the rest of those untweezed bastards, send 'em to hell.

other girls try to convince me to get even balder. they want to see some serous shaving. me, i’m just procrastinating this little eyebrow thing.

but then i come home from getting my taxes done, and i see the car of the cleaning lady.
(yes, this too is not something i normally do; seriously, what am i preparing for?)
anyway, you know how uncomfortable that is, being in your house while somebody you’ve paid cleans it.

so what i do, i start driving. and i pass a salon with a sign in the window.
WAXING

it’s no done deal yet.
i hang out in front of the salon for awhile. not sure how i feel about going in. about actually telling somebody what i'm thinking about doing. when the lobby area is all clear of customers, i bite the bullet.
the truth is, if the girl behind the counter was my type, if i found her attractive, i’d still be bushy above my eyes, because i just wouldn’t be able to bring myself to even say the word “wax” to her.
but as it happens, she’s not my type.
the girl behind the counter, she and i stare at each others eyebrows for a few moments after i tell her in a quiet voice what i might be there for.

and then she starts hollering the name of another girl, calling her up front, V! V! and i know that i'm already committed.

of course V, she’s the kind of girl i’m attracted to.

so back there, in the little room with the nice lights, leaning back in the chair, still as hell, i am telling the girl all these things.
i’m telling her about my personal space issues and ex wives and all the half Cuban girls i know.
i'll say anything when i'm nervous.
and she's is applying and ripping and it all hurts a bit. like this burn.
i’m babbling and trying to keep my eyes closed and she is breathing on my face and what i feel for a few moments is that love we feel for those people who have us in absolute power.

then it’s over. red slashes below and above my eyes, like i’m wearing some pink eye shadow.

the house is clean, the day is pretty, my taxes are done, and whatever i think i ought prepare for, well, i have.