Monday, December 21, 2009

A Day at the Spa

Sweet Joyce.

If there is anything presentable about my appearance it's because of Joyce.  I met her when I was 15 years old.  She is far more family now than hairdresser.  We've been through most of each other's big life events.

The kids and I had an appointment today.  And, well, do you ever feel like you're being punk'd?

I went to get my hair "done" last Wednesday and Joyce (and her carpet) were just recovering from The Great Flood.  Her pedicure tub had been left at a trickle all night long.  It filled the bath... and then filled the floor... and then the hallway.

Fast forward to today and I go back with the kids.  We get there and, are you kidding me?!, the hallway is flooded AGAIN.  This time it's the hot water heater that has leaked.  Joyce is seriously on that dangerous precipice of I'm-laughing-but-it's-because-I'm-about-to-lose-my-mind-or-cry and could-somebody-please-get-me-some-coffee?.

Spencer got his haircut only about 20 minutes later than our scheduled appointment.  Pretty good timeliness for the fact we were working under disaster protocol, I would say.

And, now, here's where things start to effect me.  It's time for me to get waxed.

Picture this:  We scurry past the carpet guy sucking the water out of the carpet on our way to the facial room.  I sternly warn my kids that Aunt Joyce is in a hurry; they need to stand still and stay out of the way (Yeah, right. Evidently when you're 6 and 3 that translates as, "climb up on the bed with mom to get a closer look and quiz Aunt Joyce about every tool she uses - from wax, to tweezers, to magnifying lights").  No sooner do I lie down and the face waxing begins, than there is a knock at the door.  Spencer opens the door and a conversation commences between Joyce (at my head) and the water heater repairman - aka, her above-and-beyond, come-to-the-rescue, firefighter-by-trade boyfriend, Steve - (at my feet) discussing plumbing, inspections and insurance claims.  And, did I mention that she's still waxing?  All this as the drone of a shop vac hums in the background (an interesting departure from the classical music that used to play in the facial room).  No sooner does this conversation come to an end than Spencer chooses to do his best WWF elbow-blow directly to my thigh.  And, then she waxes my lip.  It was a true Christmas miracle that, between Joyce and me, the kids didn't learn a few new colorful words today.

Joyce and I were laughing til we cried.  And, really, that's all that matters.  Who cares that I probably left there with one too few eyebrows and one too many mustaches?  I'll be back in four weeks.

So have a Merry Christmas, Joyce.  Or, rather, have a Dry Christmas.  I love you and I'll see you after the holidays (as soon as they release you from the asylum).



OK - now it's time for you to admit it:  It wasn't until halfway through my post when I said "FACE waxing" that you weren't horrified that I was talking about a bikini wax.  Right?

2 comments:

Brandy said...

Oh, I knew...but was waiting waiting waiting for you to clarify!

Ali said...

:D

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