First published in QWF #34

The bitch plucked me again. Ouch! I’ll never get used to it. Just imagine what it would be like to have your innards ripped from within you. Then and only then might you just be able to appreciate the pain.

I’m sorry; I haven’t introduced myself – how rude. I’m #2763, a long, sleek, pitch-black hair, situated slap bang in the middle of Ms. Emily Louise Knight’s pretty little face. Between her delicately sculptured eyebrows to be exact. I’m the bugger that just won’t piss off. I pride myself on being the darkest and most persistent of all the facial hairs.

My neighbour #2764 got plucked same time as me, two days and three hours ago and still hasn’t reappeared. Nope, not even a hint. #2764’s got no guts, that’s the problem, no determination, can’t take the pain. Bollocks to that, I don’t like to brag but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve got staying power. Admittedly it hurts like hell, but seeing Ms. Knight’s crumpled face and annoyed sigh at little ‘ole me poking back on through gives me immense satisfaction.

I hold the record for the quickest regrowth. Plucked at 11:30pm back by 8am right on time to see the horror on her face through the steamy bathroom mirror. Not bad eh? You see I’m stubborn; it can take days for Ms. Knight and her tweezers to get a hold of me and tug.

Ms. Knight, I’ll give her credit tries her hardest to dispose of us. She plucks, shaves, epilates, dyes, conceals, dissolves and (I quake just thinking about it) waxes. Aaaaagggghhhhhrrrr!

I’m lucky I’m in a position where that foul, sticky stuff can’t get me, but those poor leg hairs. Doesn’t bear thinking about, all gone, in a few moments of excruciating sounding pain. Not to be seen again for six long weeks. It’s pure torture for the rest of us, listening to Ms. Knight’s chatter with the bitch with the wax.

“You should get some fake tan, give you a lovely subtle glow,” Bitch says peering down and obviously enjoying ripping away innocent lives. “You should get the new St Tropez all over tan, all the celebs are ‘aving it done.”

“I think I might,” Ms. Knight answers. I can feel her teeth clench. Good I hope it hurts like hell. “So I don’t look so pasty on holiday.”

Holiday… Sound the alarm bells. The dreaded word has been spoken. HOLIDAY. Every hair that’s left stands on end in horror. We know what this means, we’ll be zapped within a millimetre of our lives.

“Where you going to?” Bitch asks.

Please let it be Scotland or Wales. Somewhere cold and wet, where clothes need to be worn at all times. Iceland’s supposed to be lovely this time of year.

“Ibiza.”

Shit.

“Oh nice,” Bitch replies.

That’s it we’re all doomed.

Now where are we off to? Out the torture chamber, onto the smoggy street, around the corner and into River Island, past the dresses, in-between the casuals, ignoring the little tops until we stop in front of… Oh God no, please no…

Red or silver, striped or plain, padded or unpadded, high cut or strings, swimming costume or bikini. Choices, choices, choices. I can sense Ms. Knight’s bikini line shaking to their sturdy roots. They’re goners.

I dread the onslaught of summer. Winter is the time of re-forestation, getting a good root system going in preparation for summer. Vital for all hairs below Ms. Knight’s neck. She tends to let up on the torture of plucking and shaving amidst the depths of winter, wrapped up in oversized jumpers and trousers and tights. A bit of stubble here and there doesn’t matter so much. Thankfully she’s let herself go since splitting with Mr Arsehole.

Mr, “Truthfully, I do think your bum looks big in this” Arsehole, “Oh and darling you’ve got stubble around your ankles.” Bastard! It was good riddance to him and his damaging comments, unnaturally baby smooth chest, thick wallet, even thicker brain and tanned goddess on the side. And hello to chick flicks, slabs of pizza, baggy jumpers and a multitude of sins. Us.

“How could you?” Ms. Knight had screamed, shaking and cursing amidst a torrent of tears and shattered emotions. I watched him calmly apologise, his face full of sincerity and shame but I could see his eyes sparkle, his stubble smirk as his thoughts and feelings were firmly with his new silky smooth girlfriend.

“Babes, it’s just meant to be…” he slimed, shrugging his shoulders in mock helplessness.

“Don’t call me that. Get out of here.” She shoved him away from her,slammed the door on him and then let herself go. I felt sorry for Ms. Knight, he’d broken her heart and destroyed her confidence and yet a bit of me thanked him for it, for the freedom it gave us - we covered her as quickly as a bush fire spreads. That was back in December. Six blissful months of freedom. I never realised I could grow so long, I even surprised myself.

Six blissful months until she met Paige, her new best friend from work. Paige. What a dumb-ass name. Paige, with her manicured nails and frequent facials. Paige who was always out partying in the trendiest clubs with the flashiest top and shortest skirt. Paige with her baby doll looks and baby smooth legs. Paige and her incessant talk on new beauty products and skin care regimes. Paige who brought Ms. Knight from out of hibernation and bombarded the poor girl with creams and waxes, lipsticks and colour-charts, shopping sprees and nights out in hot Pubs with barely there clothes. DAMN YOU PAIGE. Life was sweet until you showed up.

“Hi, I’m Paige Danner, started today.”

“Emily Knight, been here two years, work in marketing.”

And that’s how they met, seeded the fruits of their ever growing friendship with a shared coffee break at eleven, lunch at the classy Domino’s between one and two with a gossip and their usual hummus and salad sandwich accompanied by sparkling raspberry water. I realised something was desperately wrong when Ms. Knight stopped munching on takeaway pizza and sweet and sour chicken from the local Chinese. It worried me even more when the oven chips disappeared followed by the apple pies and cream from the fridge and were replaced with low fat yogurt, carrot sticks and dwarf beans. That’s no fun for a growing lass.

Real trouble began when their friendship extended past working hours with Paige kicking Ms. Knight back into life with Pubs and Clubs and Saturday afternoon shopping sprees. Yeah, life was so much sweeter when we were left to our own devices, lounging indoors with ER and Friends, cream cake and hot chocolate, cooped up inside a size 16 jogging suit. That suited me just fine.

“You know Emily, you could really look stunning if only you tried,” Paige suggested one day. The day everything turned sour, the day our lives became numbered, the day that set our destiny in motion, the day…

“You think so?” Ms. Knight uncouthly snorted, amidst a mouthful of feta cheese and olives.

“Without a doubt,” Paige nodded enthusiastically. If only she had left well alone. “A new haircut, a splash of make-up, a pluck here and there, neaten up those eyebrows…”

Watch it bitch.

“Get some confidence into you girl.”

And guess what? Ms. Knight took that advice, loved the suggestion of a holiday with her new best mate, got up off of her dozy fat arse, peddled away on the exercise bike, crunched on carrots for a snack and took to studying herself in the steamy bathroom mirror again, giving a little pluck here and another pluck there. The skirts got shorter and her attitude got bigger.

Now it’s just seven days until Ibiza. The leg hairs are gone, the bikini lines waxed… There’s only a few of us left. Their incessant talk of ‘having it large’ is driving me crazy, their crude giggling about shagging the bronzed natives - Paige definitely would have a one night stand, (she’s had two already) Ms. Knight’s not so sure. I’m glad to hear that. The thought of some smelly, sweaty, over excited stranger, rubbing himself up and down, breathing all over me… Ugh!

Five days to go. We’re walking into an unfamiliar, clinical looking place, with Ms. Knight gassing into her silver slither of a mobile to you know who.

“You know what we talked about, Paige, the other day…” Ms. Knight can hardly contain her excitement. She states her name at reception. I begin to get worried, #2764 begins to get worried. What had they talked about the other day? The other day when I had been plucked into oblivion and missed any juicy morsel of conversation.

Paige murmurs something I can’t quite make out. Ms. Knight answers, “I’m there now,” followed by a true girlie giggle as she plonks herself down on a seat between two cascading plants and a coffee table slung with beauty magazines.

That’s when I spy the posters on the wall, beautiful girls with smooth, unnaturally hair free complexions and the notices stating:

BANISH THOSE RUSTY RAZORS
FORGET PAINFUL PLUCKING

#2764 is starting to shake. I begin to feel slightly queasy at my roots, as a horrendous sense of foreboding descends.

“After you said how good this treatment was,” Ms. Knight positively purrs into her phone. I don’t like the sound of this. “If it’s good enough for Posh… Mmmn, I know. It worked wonders for you didn’t it?”

“Totally screwed the bastards,” Paige giggles loudly down the phone. “Liberating experience. Saves so much time and embarrassment, Emily.”

What? What the hell are they talking about. Every hair that’s left murmurs in dismay. It’s all rubbish. These new treatments, they’re always a big con, screwing gullible customers out of hard cash. Ms. Knight will be the one screwed not us.

“Blokes in Ibiza will love it Emily,” Paige exclaims. “Ultra smooth body all the time, they’ll be hard pushed keeping themselves done up.”

So crude.

“Emily Knight?” The tousled redhead behind reception calls. “You may go in now.”

Good riddance Paige Danner, as she’s cut off and we head into Treatment Room 2, to be greeted by a sickly sweet smile, from a sickenly pretty twenty something.

“So you want to get rid of the hair on your upper lip and between your eyebrows, that shouldn’t be a problem Emily, quick and painless and totally permanent, now just put your head back and relax.”

No, no this isn’t happening. Don’t do this Ms. Knight. Emily! Please, don’t do this. I don’t deserve to be treated like this. Ms. Knight, I’ll be good, I won’t spoil your goddam holiday, just give me one more…