Anyway, on Tuesday, I ran into Lars at the university when I was there for a luncheon to support a new women’s history wing. He took one look at me and said, “How many babies have you got in there, anyway?”
Ha. Ha. Ha.
And yesterday, my mother stared at my belly for a long time, then shook her head and said, “I don’t remember being this big at four months. I was still in my regular jeans, even when I was pregnant with Bram.” Bram was her biggest baby (and still is, quite frankly). He weighed a whopping nine pounds, six ounces at birth, which he delights in reminding the other boys of every chance he gets.
Oh my God! What if my baby ends up being a nine-pounder? Or worse? What if this child has an abnormally large head circumference? Dear Lord, my vajayjay will never recover. I wonder if my mother’s did? I should really ask her. Wait, no I shouldn’t. I donotwant to know the answer to that one. I should Google it. Not my mother’s vagina, obviously, but the whole thing about whether the average woman’s nether regions recover after giving birth to a huge baby.
I pull my phone out of my purse, then stop myself. Do I really want to know if my vag won’t ever be the same again? Isn’t it better to do millions of Kegels and tell myself everything will be fine?
Yes, that’s the way to handle this—by using my strong ability to deny reality. I sit in the back seat, working on my Kegels whilst trying to keep my face relaxed. Why is that so hard? You’re trying it now, aren’t you? It’s almost impossible to hear about them without doing them, isn’t it?
Oh! We just pulled up at the salon. Yay! Shiny, fabulous hair time! Nikki’s going to give me a lovely up-do and apply my makeup so I should be looking my best when I step out with Arthur for the Avonian Opera Society’s Annual Dinner and Silent Auction.Hello!Magazine, here I come!
***
WHEN XAVIER OPENS THEdoor to the salon, club music spills out into the street. Kyle, the owner, uses loud rave music as a way of keeping the over-forties out, therefore ‘maintaining the relevance’ of the salon. I suppose it makes sense, but it is a bit of a sad commentary on aging. Plus, Kyle’s forty-six, and I’m pretty sure at this point he’s just pretending to like techno music, which must mean every day is a personal hell for him.
Xavier walks in ahead of me, and all heads turn to him. The women. The men. Even Kyle’s ancient teacup poodle, Liza, lifts her head from her doggy bed by the counter and gives him a once over. Nikki glides over to us, looking like she’d like to stuff Xavier into a waffle cone and lick him. I give her the eye, and she shrugs in a ‘what? I can’t help it’ way.
“Can I get you a drink, Xav? Some Perrier, maybe? Or a cappuccino?” she shouts in his ear.
“No, thank you. The carbonation from Perrier leaches phosphate from your bones. And I don’t drink coffee,” he hollers back.
Kyle walks over to us and gives me air kisses on both sides. “Prinnnnccesssss!” he shouts, managing to turn the word into four drawn-out syllables. “You’re looking draggy. We need to get you done immediately!”
Draggy?That wasn’t very nice. “I’m pregnant,” I say.
“Clearly. So, you’re going to need all the help you can get if you’re going to hold the attention of that man of yours until,” he waves his hand dismissively over my belly, saying, “this business is over.”
Well, now I feelsomuch better than I did before I came. I’m still waiting for that pregnancy glow to kick in, but at this point my sallow skin and dark grey bags under my eyes appear to have settled in for the long haul.
Kyle turns to Xavier and grins. “And how about this tall drink of water? How about Ido youwhile Nikki does the princess over here?”
Xavier doesn’t react to the obvious double entendre. “No, thanks. I have a regular barber. I’m all set.”
Kyle looks completely offended by the very word, shaking his head as though recovering from a slap across the face.
Xavier gives him a nod, then proceeds do a quick walk around the salon, presumably to check for suspicious-looking people. I follow Nikki to a room at the back called The Colour Bar. Here the dance music gives way to a quiet, new age playlist meant to create a Zen environment (but I secretly think it’s to give Kyle some relief from the pounding beat). An enormous slab of reclaimed wood sits on metal sawhorses in the centre of the room with chairs surrounding it. This is where the clients are seated while they’re getting their hair coloured. Kyle was aiming for a community atmosphere, but for the most part, it just means clients politely ignore each other and stare at their mobile screens while dye is applied to their hair.
I sit at the table while Nikki mixes my colour. I haven’t actually come to the salon to get my hair done in over a year, as Nikki’s willing to come to the palace so we can hang out and watchThe Gilmore Girlswhile my colour sets. Now that I’m here, it feels like a homecoming to be in a normal salon in a regular neighbourhood of the city. This was a terrific idea. I’m away from my parents for a few hours, and I’m back with my own kind of people—the ordinary, not uppity ones. I smile at a woman who looks to be about my age who’s sitting across from me.
She smiles back. “You’re Princess Tessa.”
“I am. And you are...”
“Hannah.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” she says. “How are you feeling? I heard you were quite nauseous.”
“Much better, thanks.”
“That’s nice for you. I was sick for almost my entire nine months with my son.”
“Oh, dear. I can’t imagine. How old is he now?”
“Three. Such a handful. Just being able to sit here for the next hour is like going on a vacation to the tropics for me.”
