Hot Wax in the City…will miss?
I have this one defining moment that I always refer to as ‘the most humbling experience of my life.’ Funny, as I get older and my humbling moments are compounding themselves into a rather lenghty list. One of these days I’ll tell you all about the big gay rugby auction. Only in NY…but back to this story.
A few years back, I was taking a trip to Acapulco with my BF. I thought I would spice the whole thing up by going in for a wax. You know, a waaaax. You knowwww…for the hair. Down there. Alright, we all on board now?
I had the appointment at the Aveda salon. Nice, clean, fresh smelling. Everyone speaken English (this has become a very important telling sort of distinction in my story telling these days). They placed me in the waterfall room, candles lit, soft music playing, gave me tea and told me to relax. It wasn’t hard. I did.
A soft spoken woman came to get me and lead me to the wax room. She gave me privacy and told me to change into these little disposable cotten panties that were on the table. Cute! The lights were somewhat low, the ambiance serene. I was getting myself psyched up. ‘I can do this. I can do this.’ Now I can be all for a little rough housing in the boudoir, but the idea of dropping hot wax down there, only to tear it off with a strip of cloth moments later is so far out in S&M left field, I can’t even fathom it. So my trained wax tech enters the room and chats with me. I’m nervous. She knows. Then she starts pawing around down there, touchin hairs, making faces and I am now too pleased. I’m paying her to claw at me and belittle my region with looks of disgust? I hadn’t gardened down there in like 2 weeks!! I was going crazy! I knew it was bad, but her reaction was a bit much. I could feel my face warming with the heat of judgement. I was so embarrassed.
Turns out, I hadn’t let it grow out long enough! Ick! I asked her to do my legs (not long enough) and various other parts of my bod. We couldn’t even do my brows cause I’m an uber plucker. So, I left a bit furry, not quite hairy enough for removal, but with a whole new complex: I have a hair removal addiction.
Fast forward to…couple days ago. I’ve spent a couple months now drilling everyone I know about bikini waxing, Brazillian waxing (uh-uh. no way am I ready to go there) the pain, the fear, how drunk I can be to just get myself in the door without them kicking me out. I had heard good things about this salon in my neighborhood. Heard it was pretty cheap too. (PS: in the future, whenever looking to invite people near your lady bits with hot wax and cloth strip, rippy offey things, do not allow money to play a factor. Just an FYI. Go all out. Shuck out the big bucks.)
So I hop off the train one stop before mine and decide to just look into it. I don’t have to commit to a thing! I step into the nail/massage/facial/wax/UPS shipping outlet/vegetable stand/flu shot distributer salon. I mean it. They did everything. And all in little tiny rooms off to the sides. Hmm. Tiny little Asian woman #1 hops up from the tips she’s applying and shouts/asks ‘what I want, what I want’. Uhh, I ask for the menu, she gestures to the entire freakin wall o’ options and I ask about waxing. (gestures and misunderstandings, quizzical looks) Bikini. Ah, I got her now. She leads me back and I assume she’s giving me a tour of their state of the art facilities. Yeah, you guys get it, don’t you? I had just made an appointment. For right now.
She ushers me into a tiny room, with a table thing, sliding door (does not close all the way, thank you very much. Yes, I see you out there painting nails) and a high wattage, could heat Pluto to it’s frozen core, heat lamp, er, lighting scheme. I was feeling a little exposed, but I didn’t know the half of it yet. I really didn’t know what I was doing there. Was someone coming to give me a pep talk, discuss how it all works and set me up with an appointment? I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there on the table. Fully clothed. Silly rabbit.
Asian woman #2 (aka, my wax tech) lands in the room (and I use ‘wax tech’ loosely as I have come to believe this woman may have done her training on chickens) and starts yanking on my pants. Hey, hey, hey! We’re rounding first and heading to second, ok, ok. I’m cool. Let me help you with that. When she starts yanking at my panties and checking things out down there, I realize that my standards to hair removal are a bit high and I suddenly feel cold, afraid and alone. I sniffle. There is no tea. There is no waterfall room. No paper disposable panties. Instead, I’m sweating to death in this chamber of waxing hell with this woman yanking down my skivvies and smacking my ass to boost me up on the table. Then she stares at my legs and makes a comment (something to the effect of) them being very long. Super. Thanks for turning your attention there.
I wasn’t certain if she had understood my instructions of where to go with this and where to clearly STAY AWAY FROM. She sort of nodded and muttered, but it wasn’t quite the same as hearing ‘yes, I understand that you do not want me to scar that which is most important to you in your small shallow world, and I will thusly avoid that area.’ I was stiff as a board, ready to bolt from the room and cling to the first nail painter I saw, throwing her out in front of me. I was also trying to bear in mind that if bolting happened, I would have to maintain a safe crotch distance from people/things/children/pets so as not to glue them to the wax that would surely still be attached. Deep breath in….and…well that wasn’t SO bad. I mean she was slapping it on and ripping it off so quick that I barely had time to register, whoah! yikes! There’s third base! Woo-hoo! Can’t say she wasn’t thorough.
So, I left, slightly bow legged, and no longer happy with the underwear choice, but otherwise feeling as though I had just become a woman. Again. Or for the first time. Not the current issue.
I’m recovering and doing fine. Enjoying the view and dying for a slip and slide. The funny thing is, I kind of miss Asian woman #2. She never calls. She never writes. She never even told me her name. I wonder if she’s thinking about me too…
On A Different Level of Crazy from Old Man River
Baseball is a big deal here in NY. You have the Mets, the Yankees and the thousands of spastic fans between the two. And I am not kidding in the least when I say that what happens on the baseball diamonds greatly affects the atmosphere of the city. Allow me to illustrate me point.
I tried to get into the baseball thing here. I’ve been to Mets games. They’re fun. But I think all baseball games are fun. You sit in a seat while people walk around and serve you beer and food. Right in your seat! It’s pretty much a genius set up. But I just can’t get as into it as people here tend to get. Earlier in the season, the Mets had a tough loss and I was told, in a whisper, at work to avoid our boss because he was really upset that day because of it. I was stunned. I’m from Milwaukee and a Brewers fan. But I’m pretty sure we do it differently. It may be because we tailgate (They don’t do that here. At all. Isn’t that weird?) so the game just sort of becomes a different venue for drinking and getting together. Half the time we don’t even make it into the game, finishing up our brats and beer, listening to the radio and hooting when we hear a roar from the stadium. That doesn’t make us lessor fans, we’re there, showing solidarity and that’s pretty good. Win or lose, we still have a six pack to finish. It’s just a different perspective. However, this is what happens when the Mets lose:
Let’s first bear in mind that the Mets stadium is in Queens, where I live, so the folks here have really made the Mets the Queens team. They’re sort of seen as the underdogs who are playing stick ball on a dirt field next to the Yanks who have clean uniforms and real bats. Sorta like the kids in ‘The Sandlot’ (For-ever. For-ever. For-ever. Those of you who get that are my favorites.) So when something happens with the Mets, Queens feels it pretty strongly.
Now, our landlord has had some problems with the Neighbor (now to be known as: RN, or ‘Roid Neighbor) on several occasions (not Old Man River. This guy is on the other side.) It’s a drainage issue. Our landlord needs to run rain water out to the street, since the boys backyard is concrete and their basement bedrooms will flood, so he’s come up with several solutions. He attached plastic pipes to the gutters and ran them along the fence that separates the properties, to the back of the yard. Away from both buildings. RN reaches under the fence and pulls the pipes apart. I would like to point out that this shortens the pipe and allows the water to run closer to the buildings, instead of running it further away. This guy is already way up there on the genius meter.
Next, our landlord busted up the concrete at the back of the lot and ran a plastic pipe, away from RN’s place, for it to run out to the street. RN was not happy again. He plugged up the pipe. He claims that the water then floods his basement. Which it would do either way. The water just needs to be redirected.
A week ago Sunday, I was visiting with the boys downstairs, watching football, having some beers and chatting with the folks who wander into the revolving door of the their apartment. It was about 8pm, we were sitting outside, a couple of guys strumming on guitars. And just regular guitars, not amped up, electric guitars (I’m sure there’s a word for those, just don’t know what it is) when I noticed someone on the other side of the fence. It’s a double gate fence that has green stuff threaded through it so you can semi see through. RN has a lock on the fence and the boys decided that they didn’t enjoy him having sole control over when he can get in and out of their backyard without having an option of their own. So they wrapped a thick, bike chain around the base of the fence with their own lock on it. It was the best thing they ever did. Let’s see why.
I was having a conversation with one of the boys and told him about the someone on the other side of the fence. We watched him sort of wander back and forth for a bit, wondering if he would complain about the music. Finally my friend gives a ‘hey man, what’s up’ and RN mutters a ‘hey’ back. Ok. We’re fine. Huh.
Friend goes toward the fence, to check the food on the grill and RN says that he wants to talk to him about the drainage issue. Uh-oh. I hear friend say that RN needs to talk to the landlord since they just rent here and I hear RN instigating the issue further. I went in to get the other roommate and tell him what’s going on outside. I thought he should know. He goes out, gets involved, and at one point says: ‘What the fuck do you want us to do about it?’ and RN loses it. He starts screaming at Roommate not to swear, he doesn’t appreciate cursing, why is he saying these things to him, he’s gonna kick his butt, and a flurry of other such statements. Then he starts climbing the fence, trying to get at Roommate. Thank god there’s barbed wire at the top and he didn’t get very far. Not through lack of trying.
Roommate goes back inside and I followed, apologizing that I told him to go back out there. I had no idea it would get like that. As we’re inside, we hear a loud ‘Dooooong! Doooooong!’ coming from outside. It’s the sound of reverberating metal pipe. Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser. People start running inside and I peek out the door to see RN beating the fence with (what we later learned to be) a wooden bench. He broke the lock and was trying to squeeze his fat ‘roid head through the fence, which is now only being held closed by the bike chain at the bottom. (see? Told you it’d come into play!) RN is threatening everyone’s lives and totally had that ‘Wendy, I’m gonna bash your brains in!’ The Shining/Jack Nicholson look on his face. So, a bunch of us are on our phones, calling the police and telling them to get out here.
I went to the front door of our building, looking for the police so we can let them in and I notice this big guy walking towards me. Then I notice another big guy come around the corner, stalking towards me. It was Roid Neighbor and his Roid friend. I slam the door closed and run into the apartment and tell them not to answer the buzzer that’s ringing off the wall. Isn’t that just enough to make you hate someone? Incessantly playing out a long toned tune on the buzzer?
Anyway, the police show up, talk to the residents and we listen to RN try to explain why the fence is broken. From his side. We didn’t see him anymore that night, but I check in on the downstairs boys often cause I don’t trust a roid head.
But as it turns out, the episode occurred right after the Mets lost their biggest, most crushing defeat that booted them out of the running for the World Series and may have cost their long time coach his job.
Curiouser indeed.
Hair-eality: Competitive Styling in the City
I am dying to get my hair trimmed. For the last few weeks, I have wrapped myself in the delusion that I have no one to impress on the way to, at, or on the way home from work. Since all of those actions account for about 3/4 of my pathetic little existence, we are now at: GOAL achieved!! I do believe that I have not impressed a single soul in ages. whew!
Getting into the why I’m holding out will come later. For the interim, I shall delight you with the tale of how I have managed the frizzed ends crisis: the classic pony tail. Day in and day out. Sometimes I half tuck it up or add a sassy little part to it, but that’s about as wild and crazy as it’s been. I won’t cut it off because when I even entertain the notion, the voice that will not allow me to throw away clothes that no longer fit, shoes that I wouldn’t be caught dead in anymore, or books that I’ve conceded long ago will never be read, informs me not to cause ‘it’s so cute when it’s actually done and that’s handy for the once in a while that you do go ‘out-out,’ which is never as often as the times you leave the apartment for, say, laundry, work, supermarket, etc, but is still worth noting.’ And so I pony tail rally on.
And now to the ‘why’ of this little personal crises. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH IT COSTS TO GET A HAIRCUT IN THIS TOWN? My first foray into keeping up with my do came last summer, after I had been here for about 2 months. I wandered around Union Square (my ‘center of the universe.’ Yes, it’s that wonderful) looking for the suitable, lucky stylist that I would soon call my own! While I wasn’t sure where this angel of all things shiny, sharp and scissorlike was, I did now know that she was not at Vidal Sassoon ($140 for a trim) John Freida ($95) or Redken ($100). All prices relayed to me with straight faces.
Scoffing at the bourgesoise, I decided my hair diva was at the $20 joint. I mean, it’s just a trim, right? If my cat would hold the mirror straight and not bitch so much, I could do it myself! Besides, they all sorta receive the same kinda training, right? Mannequin heads, Barbie’s, what’s the difference? After my locks were already washed (read as: wetted with a spray bottle) I realized we were going to hit a few snags. My grasp of Spanish is tenuous at best, but I tried to make her my new BFF by heavily complimenting the little haircutter hip-pack she was rockin’ in the hopes that her new adoration would help her help me. But, when the only tools you employ are hand gestures, repeating words in English over and over again, annunciating the crap out of them and raising your voice, it seems that certain phrases do not translate at all, such as ‘THEY’RE BANGS,’ ‘NO LAYERS,’ and ‘DEAR SWEET JESUS, CAN YOU SHARPEN THOSE SCISSORS?’ It wasn’t a total loss, but I learned a valuable lesson that day.
So the hunt continued. In a search for Bumble and Bumble products, I found a salon tucked into an ABC home goods store (very chic) It was cute, the people were tragically hip and I decided to spring for it. I had to shame myself by inquiring into the price of a trim (big no-no in Manhatta-land. If you have to ask, you shouldn’t be there) but the guy was nice about it, so I figured that alone was worth the $75 trim I was about to get. *gulp* Did she say seventy-five dollars? You bet I did. I sucked it up, cashed in that savings bond I got for my tenth birthday (thanks Grandma!) sold a couple pints of blood and did it. I nursed that do for months. I was pretty desperate and made one additional trip back there, but I was feeling woozy from blood loss and decided that if I was going have this as an addiction, shouldn’t treatment and a support group be involved?
One day I was approached by a young girl with a business card and an offer. She said she would give me a cut for $20 at Nick Arrojo’s salon (THE GUY FROM WHAT NOT TO WEAR!!) and I signed up. That’s how I discovered that all of the good (that’s my midwest creepin up, what I mean is ‘upscale’) salons offer discounted hair treatments when their students perform them. A-ha!
After a quick internet search, I quickly realized that in order to navigate the in’s and out’s of these salons, you need to be equipped with a Dungeons and Dragons master (they have strategic planning down pat) no less than 3 calendars, 6 different colored highlighters, a few sick days from work and a box of tissues for when you get turned down. Oh yes, hair salons can turn you down. (stupid Bumble and Bumble) How’s that for an ego shot?
What’s with all the heavy artillery you ask? Well, some of the programs you have to apply for, they only hold them on certain hours of certain days, you have to be able to devote at least 3 hours of your time to the process, they are never on the weekends or after work, everybody and their grandmother tries to get into them, they only do certain styles at certain times (this week is bobs!)…but they are really reasonably priced. I did try calling the Arrojo salon to see if I could get my little chicky again, but they’ve so graduated from silly trims. To have one of their professional stylists nip the tips: between $55-$400. I couldn’t even bring myself to ask how they determine what end of the scale you’re on. And yes, she said it without the slightest hint of humor.
I stopped at the drug store this morning and bought a new supply of ponytail holders. Only cost a buck sixty-nine. HA!
I wouldn’t exactly call it ’singing’ in the rain
So, I have been wanting to write about street meat (we’ll get to it. Waiiiit for it.) here in the city, but then I got distracted by ‘The Impossible Quiz’ (http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/365143. Try it. It will make you insane, which is oh, so fun) for the past several days and with all the recent hoo-hah going on in the city, I’ve decided to talk about it instead.
So, the city was in chaos and turmoil yesterday. Was it a terrorist threat? Was security and welfare compromised? Fire, explosion, crazed Britney sighting? No. It rained. Granted, it did rain a lot, nonetheless, the insanity that ensued necessitates a ‘but still…’
It kicked off at about 4 in the AM with some serious thunder and lightning action. Now we have no AC, so I have a pretty complicated set of fannery going on in my boudoir. I have the double fan, window unit which can both suck and blow (do what you will with that) in one window and a small, rickety table fan in the other window. The thought that went into this set up was arduous and the effect (in my mind) is that if the one by my bed sucks air in, while the rickety one pulls air out, I will get a nice circulation thing happening. As I said, ‘in my mind’, which is filled with all sorts of fanciful imaginitive things. Like my relationship with Vincent D’Onofrio.
So, I slumbered in my little self-actualized wind tunnel until the cracks of thunder and lightning roused me. Now, I’m barely conscious at 9am, when I’ve been up for 3 hours already, so the 4am wake up call left me a wee bit muddled. Convinced that lighting was plotting to specifically strike the metal cage surrounding the blades of the rickety fan, I tottered over to it, turned it off and removed it from the window, barely recognizing the water pouring onto the sill and my wood floors. Also note that I turned off the fan in the window furthest from me, as opposed to the one directly above my head. Genius. Pure genius.
The storm came down hard and fast for a couple of hours but had ended by 7:30 when I left for the train. I was way early heading out, but it was already 90˚and my shower was starting to wear off.
Waiting for a train can be a lot like sitting at home on a Saturday night, desperately longing for the phone to ring with some fabulous party invite and pathetically vamping ‘what about me?’ It hurts. It feels personal. It offers ample time for the sweat to hike all the way down from your neck to your butt crack. Oh joy. But wait!! There it is! And as everyone ponies up to dash on the moment the doors open, you realize the train is empty and it’s not going to stop.
When a train finally does stop and graciously lets us on, it’s so jam packed that I wind up getting more action in two train stops than I’ve gotten in the past year. (‘How YOU doin?’ wink, wink) So, I stand on the train, some guys face at my crotch level, listening to the grunts and groans of the poor bastards by the doors as people try to bum rush and force a spot for themselves onboard at each stop. And I hadn’t had any coffee since I had run out at home so I was super pleasant. *sigh*
It took us an hour to go the distance it normally takes 15 minutes to travel. Then I had to switch trains, sit in it while it didn’t move for about 20 minutes (PS-it had no AC either, so we were pretty ripe at this point.) Finally, the train moved one stop, then kicked us out of the train the train station, basically everywhere underground. Oh darn. Since it had rained, there was water on the tracks of all the downtown trains, so they weren’t running anymore. A modern city thwarted by H2O. Goodie.
I had to walk the rest of the way to work. Not that big of a deal, but once I got there I literally had to go into the bathroom, peel my dress off, and mop off my schweaty bod. Yeah. You all want a date with me now, dontcha?
Since our trains are distinguished by letters and numbers, the MTA service update read like a bad trip down Sesame Street. I could just picture The Count (the 1 train is not running, mwuhaha, the 2 train is not running, mwahaha) and the creepy, furry puppets dancing around like they’re auditioning for The Labyrinth musical. The trip home was just as bad and involved a whole lot more shoving, pushing, wriggling, swearing, shouting, jabbing, sighing, eyerolling and ‘intellectual’ dialogue on where the money for MTA projects actually goes. One suggestion was: ‘Right down the god-damn toilet!’ I think they’re onto something there.
Through all this I learned several things:
1) your boss is so happy when everyone manages to make it in on a day like that, that she springs for lunch. (the Four Seasons does NOT deliver, btw)
2) wear a skirt with about 2 days growth on them legs when there’s the possibility of a train ride like that. It helps fend people off.
3) leave the fans and all other potential lighting hazards on. Even if it just blows out your power strip, your ‘apartment being struck by lighting’ is a pretty rock solid excuse for calling in.