‘And,’ adds she of hirsute militancy, ‘talk about double standards. I’m pretty sure hairy bottomed women would never be as popular as hairy faced men. I hate this beard fashion... thing.’ Her face twists inelegantly. ‘It’s like living in a state of constant Movember.’
Please, not this again.‘You didn’t tell us what abilfis,’ I say to Nat instead.
‘Just my favourite thing in the world; a beard I’d like to f—’
‘Beard, dearie?’ From the fireside, June comes awake like an elderly jack-in-the-box, her bright blue eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Will you be waxing men after your course, Finola?’
Eurgh. I hate my name. Hate it when anyone uses it like that. It’s Fin. How many times have I got to say it? Fin! I’d even answer too, or evenla, if I have to, but never all together.
Fin + o + la = Finola ≥ a stupid name.
‘Do you not think that might upset the barber on the high street?’ Her worried gaze slips to Ivy.
‘Fin won’t be booking any waxing course.’ Ivy scoffs, like the whole idea’s a huge joke. But it isn’t. Wasn’t. Oh, I don’t know! ‘She’ll be jetting off to the corporate world again soon enough. Besides,’ she says, turning a softer gaze to June, ‘I’ve no intention of stealing the barbers’ trade. Natasha was just telling us about her latest gentleman... erm, caller.’
‘Well, he came all right,’ Nat says under her breath. ‘All over my back. I couldn’t resist!’ The burr of her accent grows more gleeful with each delivered word. ‘A beard! A beard I love to f—’
‘Nat!’
‘What? I was gonna sayfondle.’
‘What was that, dear?’ asks June, grasping the book balanced on the arm of her chair. Opening the cover, she begins to absently flick through the pages. ‘A beard did you say? I imagine it was like having a hamster to pet. I do recall you nearly killed the one I bought you when you were seven.’
‘I nearly killed the beard last night.’
‘Pardon, hen?’ June asks again.I adore being referred to as hen, especially by June. It’s sort of like hun or sweetheart, but more Scottish.
‘I loved it too much, Nan,’ Natasha answers, overly loud.
‘You did, you did,’ she agrees with several nods of her snow-white head. ‘Now, what chapter were we discussing? I must’ve nodded off for a wee while.’
It’s hard to believe this has become the highlight of my week since finding myself back home—and when I sayhomeI mean it in the loosest sense—in a tiny little seaside enclave in the Scottish borders called Auchkeld—living it large with book club night. Or as Natasha calls it,chillin’, wine swillin’ and poncy literature nillin’.
We meet once a week in Ivy’s tiny flat above her new business venture, Emporium, a beauty salon, due to open next week. Our book club chapter totals four members. Ivy, my best friend forever. Well, almost forever; my best friend since I moved hered aged twelve. Much like myself, she’s also recently returned to the village, though I don’t buy her reasons as purely coincidence. Sure, a hair and beauty salon is just what this village needs, but she’s leaving behind a pretty impressive career. Not to mention, she’s here by choice.Unlike myself.
My other book club buddies include Natasha, a twenty-one-year-old beauty therapist and part-time nymphomaniac. And, lastly, June, Natasha’s octogenarian grannie, who Ivy seems to have somehow inherited along with Nat.
‘The page, hen?’ June prompts.
‘What? Oh, we haven’t started yet.’ As usual, Natasha’s Friday night tales ofstrumpet in the citybeat that of any steamy book, because yes, it’s that kind of book club. ‘We were just chatting about... men.’
Folding her arms across her chest, Ivy snorts.
‘What?’ Natasha protests. ‘It’s not like I went out specifically to getfondled...’
She smiles slyly and I try not to shake my head like an old prude. Sometimes I feel like we’re from different planets. There are only five years between us, but those years are as vast as the ocean sitting between Scotland and the States, which I suppose is where I’m originally from, given that I was born and partially raised there. Fake tan, hair extensions and shady decisions after one too many drinks; why is it everyone under twenty-five thinks they invented a good time?
Maybe because a good night for me includes fluffy socks, a steamy book and the company of someone more than fifty years older. At least, recently.
‘Anyway,’ continues Nat. ‘He had a man bun, which you know I love, and that full-on facial fuzz. I just wanted to stroke it,’ she adds dreamily. ‘And ride it,’ she adds a lot more forcefully.
‘I know beards are fashionable, but isn’t it a bit, I don’t know... unhygienic?’
‘Psht!It’s manly! There’s just something primal about a man with a beard. Something that saysI’m here now, the boys can go home.’
‘I’m here now,’ repeats Ivy in a bass tone. ‘Get the flea comb out.’
‘You know what you are? You’re facialist.’ With a smile full of self-satisfaction, Nat folds her arms. ‘A fascist facialist.’
