Dumped, Actually(27)

I look down to see that, rather incredibly, my toes are not five bloody stumps. Instead, what stares back up at me are the shiniest of shiny toenails, each one more pristine than the last.

‘Wow,’ I say quietly.

‘Aye! That’s the way!’ Laughlin laughs, before picking the scoop back up again. ‘Now . . . time for the left foot, Oliver!’

Oh God.

We’re only halfway done.

I sink into the chair as Laughlin forcibly removes my other shoe and sock. If I can just imagine myself somewhere relaxing and comfortable, I might be able to get through the rest of this.

A nice desert island somewhere.

Yes.

That’s it.

I can feel the warm tropical breeze on my face. I can smell the scent of jasmine on the air. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my body. I can hear the gentle lapping of the waves as they caress the beach. I can—

AAAAAWWWWWVVVVVVVVVVVV.

‘Aaaargh!’


I’d like to say that the pedicure was the worst thing to happen to me that morning, but it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

When Laughlin was done with my feet, he moved on to my hands. My fingernails received the same rootling and buffing as my toes, only this time the whole thing happened a lot closer to my eyeballs, and was therefore ten times worse.

When that was done, I was forced to endure a haircut and shampoo.

And I mean the word ‘endure’. No one has ever been forced to endure a haircut and shampoo before. You sit through them. You put up with them. You even sometimes quite enjoy them.

But when Laughlin McPurty wields a pair of hairdressing scissors, it’s like watching Freddy Krueger having a seizure.

Quite how I’m not decapitated is beyond me.

Even the shampoo that Tina gives me afterwards is something that will haunt me in my dreams for decades to come. Tina is rather large of breast, you see. And she really leans into her work. I’m not averse to a pair of breasts in my face, but when they are that fulsome, and accompanied by having your head squeezed like an over-ripe melon, it becomes incredibly claustrophobic, incredibly quickly.

For a few moments, I feel like I’m in danger of my sanity being lost in the embrace of Tina’s bosom – forever to wander detached and alone betwixt those wobbling mammaries.

Before that can happen, though, I am thrust under a hairdryer by Stacy, who is thankfully flat-chested. My head gets boiled in hot air for a minute, and then Imogen starts to pull me towards the door at the rear of the salon.

‘Where are we going?’ I squeak, still trying to shake off the boob-related claustrophobia.

‘Private room, luv,’ Imogen tells me. ‘Laughlin wants to give you a nice waxin’.’

‘Waxing? What do you mean, waxing??’

‘Well, you’re too hairy, ain’t ya?’

‘Am I?’

‘Yeah, ’course you are.’

I guess I’ll have to take her word for it. The last time I shaved was two days ago, and I have to admit it’s been a while since I trimmed my pubes, but how would Laughlin know that?

Does he have some kind of sixth sense about someone’s levels of hirsuteness underneath their clothes?

A pube-dar, so to speak?

Imogen leads me through the door and down a long, expertly decorated corridor, to another door that leads into a small room containing a massage table. The room is tastefully decorated in a Balinese style, with a fair bit of decorative bamboo and at least two small stone Buddhas.

A gentle piece of calming oriental music is piped into the room from regions unknown.

Laughlin is nowhere to be seen right now. I can’t tell if this is a good thing or not.

‘Get undressed, luv,’ Imogen tells me. ‘When you ’ave, just lie down on the table with the sheet over you. Laughlin will be here in a bit to take care of you.’

‘Er . . . what exactly is he going to do?’

Imogen rolls her eyes. ‘Give you a nice waxin’, silly.’

‘But . . . But . . . should he be doing that?’

Imogen’s brow furrows. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well . . . waxing’s a . . . a . . . a job for a woman, isn’t it?’

Somewhere, far off, the Sexism Fairy has just thrown up in her mouth a bit. Or his mouth, even. I’ve never met the Sexism Fairy before, so I certainly wouldn’t want to presume his or her sex. It may lead to the reinforcement of negative stereotypes.

Imogen gives me a dark look. ‘Laughlin is the best waxer in the south of England,’ she tells me in a sniffy voice.

‘Really? How do you know? Is there a competition?’

She pushes me towards the massage table. ‘Just get changed. I’ll tell Laughlin you’ll be ready in five minutes.’

But I don’t want to be ready in five minutes!

I’m not sure I could be ready in five hours!

Before I get a chance to protest, Imogen has gone, leaving me alone with my abject fear, and the not-so-soothing sound of pan pipes.

I don’t want to be waxed. I have never wanted to be waxed in my life. I am not a piece of paper in urgent need of waterproofing, nor am I the bonnet of a sports car.

I’m thinking all of this as I nervously get undressed, lie on the massage table and cover my modesty with the sheet Imogen pointed out.

As I lie there, trembling slightly, my misgivings about this whole thing really begin to skyrocket.