No one answered me. Most of them didn’t speak the language, and the rest were far too focused on the task at hand. The most I got was a silencing pat on the head.
In the four minutes it had taken me to make a fresh pot of coffee, my living room had been transformed into a virtual spa. The original furniture had been either shoved aside or exiled unceremoniously to the bedroom, soon to be replaced with massage beds, hot wax machines, one of those old-fashioned hair domes, and a million other pieces of equipment I had never seen.
My clothes were yanked off and as I perched atop a wooden stool—draped in a terrycloth towel designed to relax—no less than thirty people buzzed in and out of my line of sight. Trimming. Buffing. Polishing. Preening to their heart’s content.
It was every girl’s dream. To be treated like a queen by a host of willing subjects. Fussed over and pampered by an Eastern European mob trained to do exactly that.
But at the same time...all the attention was a little much.
“Okay, seriously?” I pulled back my hand, as a woman I’d never seen before walked toward me with a little jar of something simply labeled youth. “Is that a joke? What do you even do with that?”
More importantly, where did she get it? They weren’t kidnapping forest maidens somewhere, right? Draining them dry to moisturize the skin of the Upper East Side?
“You cry into it, then we offer up your tears as a sacrifice to the gods,” Stacy answered matter-a-factly. “It’s basic science.”
It was a testament to how crazy things had become, that she was my rock. Twice, she had vetoed things deemed too extreme. (My vetoes apparently didn’t count. Even when it came down to something ominously referred to as a ‘vampire face lift.’) Twice, she had been met with a shrieking hailstorm of Russian.
Fortunately, Stacy was more than up to the task.
“Science. Right.” I bit down upon my lip as a strip of waxing cloth was ripped from my leg. My other leg was hiding instinctively behind the chair. “You know, I always thought that spa days were supposed to be relaxing. Women always talk about them like they’re a treat.”
“Women also paint their faces, pierce their ears, and pretend they enjoy walking around on miniature stilts all day,” Stacy replied, disassociating completely. “Women are crazy.”
An ironic condemnation, considering I was talking to one of the foremost stylists in the country. Even more ironic considering that she dated women exclusively, ignoring the other sex.
She caught my sarcastic look with a wry grin.
“Men are even crazier.”
I snorted under my breath, flashing back to a showdown over a lobster tank. A hang-gliding incident involving powerlines in Bolivia. An unfortunate run-in with a renegade swan.
“You’ve got that right.”
And speak of the devil...
My phone buzzed away in my pocket, and I hastened to dig through the designer threads draping me to respond. No less than six women scolded me in various languages as I did so, but in the end, I came up triumphant—giving each one of them a winning smirk before peering down at the screen. Sure enough, it was Nick.
You get my presents? Told you, I like to spoil.
I shook my head with a little grin and held the phone closer to my chest, shielding the conversation from anyone who might be looking in.
You call this spoiling? I’m covered head to toe in wax, a woman I don’t know is rubbing some sort of paste into my scalp, and I’m nursing a chemical burn from a woman named Helga.
There was a brief pause, followed by:
Please send photographic evidence at once.
I choked back a laugh, then had a miniature tug-of-war with a fierce-looking woman who was trying to claim my hand. In the end, I surrendered it—typing with my other.
Lol. Next time you want to spoil, try sending chocolates. Not the 23rd Battalion.
Another pause. I could picture him grinning down at the screen. Sipping his morning cup of coffee from out on the balcony as he gazed out over the entire city. Completely oblivious to the girlish hell that had settled over my little apartment.
You like chocolates?
I perked up with dread at the smell of fresh wax and quickly angled my body in the opposite direction, tucking my other leg up beneath me for safe keeping.
Everyone likes chocolates.