"Back so soon for a full leg and bikini?" Tanya asked as I peeled off my shorts.
"It grows faster in summer," I said, settling on the narrow table in my tank top and thong. I lay back and watched as she turned away to dial up the heat on the wax pot. Her tight black skirt rode up the back of her toned and hairless brown thighs. No panty line, and no thong silhouette, either. Tanya must be going au naturel, I thought. Lucky girl.
I'm a bit of a naturalist myself. I'd let my leg hair grow, but I'm a swimmer, and the hippie look doesn't fit with the bronze body-consciousness of a racing suit. I'm not much for underthings, either. My bras and panties are lace-free, utilitarian affairs in primary colors, and whenever possible, I go without. Still, waxing etiquette demands a layer of fabric between an esthetician and her client, and a thong gives Tanya room to trace the tan line of my high-cut swimsuit, leaving me with a narrow triangle of fair hair to match the below-the-shoulders mop on my head.
Tanya must be working out, I thought. The sinews of her thighs and ass strained against the flimsy fabric. Between the straps of her camisole, a phoenix rose toward the bob of brown curls that teased the nape of her neck. The tattoo's orange flames seemed to dance as she stirred the heated potion. I couldn't stop staring at the bird's eyes. They seemed to track mine as her muscles rippled.
"Your hair's so blond, how can you see it?" she asked. She turned back, bent over me and positioned a spotlight over my thigh. She grabbed a lab coat from a hook and buttoned it closed, then snapped a pair of latex gloves on her hands. It was as if the Tanya of a moment ago had disappeared, and a starched clinician stood in her place.
Tanya sprinkled talc on my legs, then grasped an ankle firmly in each hand and pushed upward, rubbing the powder in as she moved. She fanned out along the curve of my thighs and pulled her hands away. I started to breathe deeply, as if I were relaxing for a massage rather than preparing to have molten liquid painted on my legs and the hair ripped out, root by root.
"You've been swimming, haven't you?" Tanya asked.
"How can you tell?"
"Well, I know you're a swimmer. But look." She traced a finger along the fold of my thigh. "Your legs are deep brown, for one thing, and the hairs have bleached white." She rubbed a sure hand along my quad. "Your muscles have fantastic definition. You must have a strong kick." Then she reached under and touched the back of my neck where the skin stayed white under my suit back. I shivered. "And I noticed the tan line on your back before you lay down." She removed her hand and dipped a wooden tongue blade into the wax. "So you see, it doesn't take a detective to know you've been swimming."
Tanya spread a wide line of wax along my lower leg. She picked up a strip of linen, lay it on top of the wax the way she might smooth a sheet, and, as if she were pulling a rip-cord, yanked if off my leg. I inhaled, and she slapped, quick and sharp, the place that rang with pain.
"I never get used to this," I said. "Normally, a slap like that would sting. But this has the opposite affect. It softens the pain."
"Funny how that works, isn't it?" Tanya said. We loped into an easy chat as she removed parallel rows of hair from first one lower leg, then the other, as if I were a lawn and she the mower. Tanya and I had the classic salon relationship. We met monthly, assumed the familiar position, then chatted like old friends about work, family, lovers. Then I forgot about her until the hair on my legs grew visible and it was time for another appointment. Even in the busy summer months, she squeezed me in before I felt desperate enough to take a tweezers to my follicles myself. And I always tipped very well.
"Bend your knees and spread your legs a little," Tanya said. I complied. She focused on the curvy area around the joint, painfully close to bone and difficult to maneuver. With her head so close to my midsection and the lamp warming the air molecules above her, I inhaled the patchouli she must have sprinkled on that morning. I closed my eyes, breathing in the earthy and mysterious scent.
"Ouch!" I yelped, opening my eyes suddenly. Tanya was yanking individual hairs out of my knees with tweezers. She grasped me more firmly. I flushed, embarrassed. After all this time, I should be able to take the discomfort, well, like a woman.
"Sorry, but you know how hard it is to see these fine hairs, especially when they've lightened in the sun. The spot's so bright they seem to disappear. I'm nearly done here."
