Chapter 14: Services Rendered

Like many other people, I learned about the concept of "beauty" from television, magazines, movies, and books. The fashion magazines frightened me because the statuesque models looked so tortured and hungry. I remember having a couple of nightmares where they sprang out from the pages of Vogue (beautifully dressed with their hair blowing from an isolated soft wind) and gave me a corpsey make-over. Seeing their work was in vain, they decided to eat me instead. To this day, I will cross the street rather than share the sidewalk with a model that is walking toward me.

Being pretty is a tricky business nowadays. Is it my imagination, or are there more good looking people than ever before? I know I sound naive, but even with advances in plastic surgery and eating disorders, I thought the average-looking population would still outnumber the genetic freaks. Back in high school, I think there were only about two really hot girls. The rest of us were...well, average. We were a society churning out mostly average-looking people. Or as I'd like to think, a society more forgiving toward aesthetic defects.

Years ago when I moved to the city I was surprised to find that I had basically been living like the character in that awful Jodie Foster movie, Nell. I imagined the nightly local news would report, "This just in...A feral Sasquatch has descended upon Manhattan, sending its terrified citizens fleeing in all directions. It must be stopped!! If you see this creature, do not attempt to approach it without large quantities of wax and Japanese snacks (love them). Now over to Chuck for the weather."

Believe it or not, I was a hair reduction virgin. Up to that point in my life, I had never waxed or plucked anything. Seeing the risk I posed to national security, my good friend Rachel dragged me into the nearest salon. The place was crowded and filled with loud, fast-talking, and pushy Vietnamese ladies. It was fascinating to watch them literally bouncing from station to station, yelling at each other while descending on various women with carts of shiny instruments; sitting in what I can only describe as medieval torture devices.

When one of these worker bees noticed us, her first proclamation to us was not, "Hello, how can I help you?" She looked at Rachel while pointing at me and barked, "Your friend hairy like man." She then proceeded to push me toward a chair and do things to me that still give me the shivers. After I stopped crying, I handed her my credit card.

Cut to years later. I was wandering around Chinatown looking for a salon to get a cheap manicure. Sometimes in these moments, I remember just how fast the city moves. In the spirit of true multi-tasking as only Manhattan can do, I noticed the number of services available at the salon I had stopped in front of. Displayed with the usual grammatical errors, the sign read, "Manicures, pedicures, passport photos, mailbox, photo printing, tattoos, and hair transplant."

The last item in the available services has to be an inside joke. Otherwise, that's just gross. Just in case, I think I'll keep walking.