In the car and halfway through the canyon, I realized I was wearing the same colors as the very girly eyebrow/lip waxing shop that I was on my way to this morning. Nothing like unknowingly dressing in theme on a hot Saturday coming up over Laurel Canyon, right?
Actually, I really didn’t care that much, my pink tie dyed off the shoulder shirt and my peach shorts were making me feel pretty damn sprightly, as a matter of fact.
Anyway, if you are a woman, you know the waxing experience isn’t that pleasurable. For someone normal humans, the redness will only last “oh honey, don’t worry, just a couple of hours- but I’ll put some cover up on them just in case.” For someone like me, with ultra sensitive and somewhat pale skin, it is more like “sweetie, don’t walk in the sun for at least 4 to 5 hours and you can for sure go get your flirt on tonight.”
Today, my waxing experience wasn’t totally horrifying, mostly because I knew I would be inside cleaning/writing all day with the exception of taking Sandy out for the occasional sun bath and tinkle—but I digress.
Getting a wax is much like getting a haircut. Except with a wax, it hurts more and the conversation is much shorter. But seriously, sometimes when people cut my hair, I just want to sit there. Getting to know my hairstylist really isn’t on the top of my list sometimes. Therefore I have personally deemed that waxing appointments are more enjoyable simply because you don’t have to dance around certain subjects like where you grew up, how many cows you’ve tipped, how many times you’ve jumped into a pool, the names of your pets growing up in chronological order, etc.
With waxing, you cut to the chase. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.
Today, with my favorite aesthetician, EVER, we did the usual. Lip, brow, and “what’s new with you?”
She began to talk about this “guy” whom she went on one date with, had a great time, and thought they were for sure going out again. I come to find out that the two of them have mutual friends and he is all of a sudden afraid to hang out with her without asking her on a second date. Then, I find out that he asked her close friend what he should do about it. Then I find out (bah-dummmmm) that this “man” is FORTY-THREE years old. Again, I ask myself, “in what universe…?” This one, I guess?!
Twenty minutes later, we were talking about how men are “so high school” at every age and then something so “Que Horrible!” lame came out of my mouth that I almost flicked myself in the arm.
I said “tell him to go to school then!”
After realizing what I said, I also came to the realization that with the right inflection, that phrase, although quite quirky, could actually be quite funny. One might even go as far as to say quirkily charming.
I can just imagine a couple fighting and there is always that long pause where they just STOP and stare at each other, trying to figure out what they are going to say next, and more importantly, what their partner will say next.
Then the woman (or man–either sex can have moments of extreme immaturity) would just shout, “Go to school!!!” in the same tone realm of “Go F*** YOURSELF!”