NECK WAX — By Crockett Doob

artwork by Brian Padian

“It’s called depilation.”

            “I have no idea what that means.”

            “It means the removal of hair. You should really do it. It’s more sophisticated and more scientific and—”

            “Okay okay! I’ll do it!”

            This was in the van. Brittany’s voice booming through the speakers. The van was empty; I’d taken everyone home; this was my time of day to sit in traffic and make phone calls. And now Brittany was trying to convince me to do what her boyfriend wouldn’t: wax his neck. 

            And she’d already won. I’d noticed the wax place near where I worked, on the strip, near half a dozen Trump flags. (This was before the election when things were more civil.) But it was after the summer, so there’d be less wax traffic.

            I went there two weeks later—I wanted to give my neck hair time to grow. When the receptionist asked what I was here for, I said, “Neck,” which was a half-lie. The hair continued to the top of my back. It wasn’t that my whole back is hairy, but it looks like it if I’m wearing a t-shirt.

            Within minutes, the receptionist said I could go to the back.

            The woman, the waxer, asked me to take off my shirt and lie down on the padded bed thing with the face-hole.

            As she applied the warm wax, she asked, “Do you have any plans for the weekend?”

            I couldn’t think of anything. My mind went blank. Then I remembered: My mother’s dinner to celebrate her quitting drin--

            RIPPPPP!

            “Your hair’s pretty long. This is going to take a few tries.”

            I said that was fine. It really didn’t hurt that bad.

            We talked about where was my neckline.

            “I don’t want to remove your hair-hair,” she said.

            “Right,” I said. “I guess use your judgment?”

            She ripped some more, then picked out bits of wax that hadn’t come off.

            “What do you think?” she said, showing me her mirror in the other wall mirror.

            I could see what she meant about the neckline. It didn’t look quite right but that wasn’t her fault. So much of life is like this, I wanted to say. Where is the line? Workaholism, codependent friendships. But I just said, “Looks great!”

            “How would you like to pay?” the receptionist asked me. She was giving me a first-timer discount, an incentive to come back. Which would not be happening. This wasn’t a cure-all. I’d have to live this scourge of neck hair forever, with the knowledge that what Brittany said was true: When her boyfriend shaved his neck—or I inferred he made her do it—the hair grew back stronger.

            On the street, vaguely walking to work—I had so much time—I texted Brittany a picture.

Hahaha so red! she texted.

i know, I texted. she said i may bleed.

            I sent her a video of the Trump flags then panned to the other side of street where they were selling MAGA merch.      

‍ ‍maybe i should buy a MAGA hat and wear it backwards?

DO IT!

but in all seriousness, I texted. i feel bad. i think i should’ve left a better tip. how much do you tip for a wax? i think i should’ve tipped $10 but only tipped $5 :(

Next time! texted Brittany. Then, Or go back lol

i’d feel too weird

          Brittany texted me the shrugging woman emoji.

i guess i still have time before work, I texted.

            It was a beautiful, clear day. Late September. Actually, it was my ex-girlfriend’s birthday. I remembered when we were living together in New Orleans, she shaved my thighs on my birthday so we could go to Southern Decadence in the French Quarter. I put on a very short dress, heels and a wig, and I did my own make-up, while she put on one of those pianist’s long tuxedo jackets and something that was like a bathing suit but was more risqué. We looked great!

            I texted her now: happy bday!!

            She responded immediately: Thank you!!

            I texted Brittany: okay i’ll do it

            Brittany texted back: Yes!!

Then, Wow

            So inspiring really

Tell me how you feel after...

I’m very invested

            Why was she so ‘invested’? Didn’t she have a job? Oh right. She didn’t.

            But I knew I was doing the right thing because as soon as I turned back to the wax place, I heard my name shouted and saw my very tall co-worker beaming at me from a van. Her name was Melody. She sometimes wore an engagement ring, sometimes not. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell. She was waving with her right hand while her left hand was on the steering wheel.

            I thought to tell Melody about my neck, but then the light changed and she was off.

            I texted Brittany. She loved to give me shit about my infatuation with Melody. “This again?” Because Melody was too young for me and a co-worker and unavailable. My trifecta.

            Now she texted, Why don’t you get in the van and run away together???

because i have something very important to do. about to walk into to the wax place. i’ll report back

            The receptionist looked confused to see me.

            “I left a bad tip. Is cash okay for the second half?”

            She laughed and said of course.

            okay i feel so much better, I texted Brittany once I was back on the street.

            But she didn’t respond.

            I looked up. There was a fender-bender right out front of the wax place, blocking the bus stop. An undercover cop car—though the cops were in uniform—and an Access-A-Ride. They were waiting around presumably for a tow truck, though I didn’t know why. Both vehicles looked operable. One of the cops left to get a falafel. I watched him eat it. I still had time before work.

Crockett Doob's work has been published or is forthcoming in The Missouri Review, Pembroke Magazine, Cleaver, The Good Life Review, Chiron Review, and HOOT. He lives in Rockaway Beach, NY, and does not surf.