Ivy shoots me another sceptical look, unaware of the turmoil soup I’m currently stewing in. ‘I’m sure Nat meant well mentioning it, but it’s not for you.’
‘Did you know she’s got her—’ I inhale, unable to bring myself to finish the sentence. Why would I bring up that?
‘Clit hood pierced? Yeah, I did.’ The latter comes out in a sort of weary sigh. ‘She’ll have flashed it, I suppose.’
‘God, no!’
‘Then you’re lucky.’ Ivy sighs, mumbling something about that girl having an exhibitionist streak a mile wide.
‘She just told me when we were talking about the intimate waxing course.’
‘Do you really want to spend your days looking at vaginas?’
Her delivery is far from antagonistic and even though it sounds like a genuine question, I still nearly swallow my tongue. Could I change careers completely--become an aesthetician? Do I seriously want to spend my days dealing with hirsute armpits and legs? Butt fuzzy assholes, instead of corporate ones? Or is this just another way of not dealing with a return to the real world?
‘They’re not all created equal, you know.’ Despite the coolness of my tone, I’d been shocked to discover this from Nat. The surreal conversation had left me with the understanding that some women’s undercarriages were decidedly unlike my own. I think her exact words were some look like roast beef sandwiches, made in a really careless café.
‘You think the diversity of flesh is enough to keep you stimulated? You with your first class degree and sparkly work history? Or maybe you’ll add a few items to your menu? Spray tanning, maybe?’
‘I might,’ I answer, raising my chin, worry turning to chagrin.
‘Too bad. You’ll have to find somewhere else to practise your skills. I can’t afford to let you loose on paying customers like the Sweeny Todd of intimate waxing. You’d get me closed down.’
‘Maybe I could do a special?’ Fear of the real world begins to creep into my chest again. ‘Attract people in?’
‘People to practise on?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Babe, the women around here don’t want cheap. They want the satisfaction of knowing that, when their husband goes down on them for their monthly meal at the Y, the cost of said waxing was almost as painful to the pocket as the process itself. ‘If we get busy and I need to take on a full-time wax therapist, I’ll need to employ someone experienced. I can’t have Little Mister Muff Mangler working for me.’
‘Little Miss,’ I correct.
‘If the little misses are too hard to wax, the little mister’s back, sack and crack is going to cause you real difficulties.’
‘You’re... they... you’ll do those here?’
‘Why not?’ she says with a slight shrug. A slight shrug that somehow doesn’t hide her discomfort. ‘I can’t see sixty-year-old Mister Poletti along at the barbers offering an intimate waxing with a short back and sides combo deal. I’d be silly not to extend my client base into the male demographic.’
‘You think Joe Average wants bald balls?’
‘I’m not sure there is such a thing.’
‘But you just said—’
‘I mean there’s no such thing as an average man. Unless you consider them all, one way or another, a bunch of lying scrotes.’.
‘Scrotes?’ I interject, mildly scandalised.
‘Big hairy ball sacs,’ she replies mulishly. Meanwhile, I’m kind of struck dumb. For one, Ivy always tries to see the good in any person, but she’s writing off a whole gender? And for two, swearing, because, hello! She rarely swears, and never without red-cheeks or a stutter. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, rousing herself once again, ‘it’s not much in terms of outlay, so I expect we’ll find out soon enough if the men of Auchkeld are a bunch of manscaping girls. Girlscaping men?’ She shakes her head. ‘Not that it’ll matter to you. You won’t be here long enough to find out.’
‘You know I’m still grieving.’ I immediately hate my pleading tone, not to mention the way my heart rate picks up again, a sheen of sweat dampening the base of my spine. ‘I—I’m not ready.’
‘But it’s time, sweetheart. It’s been four months. You have to move on. You’re still so young and I just hate to see you hiding away from life.’
‘I had a life!’ My words are shrill, panic crowding the channel of my throat. ‘I had a life.’ My hands toy with the hem of my Balenciaga shirt, a stray thread providing something else to focus on rather than her. ‘And I know I can’t have that one back, but I... I just don’t know how to start again.’ As I raise my head, tears trip and fall from my lids.
‘Oh, Fin,’ she says, shifting from her chair to the sofa. She slides her arms around my shoulders, one hand rubbing comforting circles against my back. ‘I know it’s scary, but you’ve got to try. You need to pull yourself out of this funk, lovely. I get it, you know.’ She sets me back, pushing the now damp hair from my face. ‘You’ve never lived on your own. Never had to support yourself.’
