More Than Just Mum. Rebecca Smith
winter wind will no doubt have done a lot to bring the swelling down. Caroline probably won’t even notice anything wrong.
I lower my hand.
‘Bloody hell!’ Caroline’s shriek gets the attention of the rest of the salon; I feel five pairs of eyes turn to gaze upon my terrible form. ‘What have you done?’
‘I was trying to wax my upper lip,’ I whisper. ‘It’s not that bad, is it?’
‘Not that bad?’ howls Caroline. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, Hannah! And we’ve seen most things in here,’ she turns to the gawping audience, ‘haven’t we?’
‘We’ve seen some shocking things,’ agrees her colleague from across the room. ‘But none as awful as that.’ He’s new since the last time I came here and I don’t know his name but, from the sneering look on his face, I suspect it’s something mean.
Caroline pats my hand in what I think is an attempt to be reassuring.
‘Maybe you’re allergic to the hair wax?’ she suggests. ‘I can’t think of any other reason you’d get a reaction like that. You did do an allergy test first, didn’t you?’
I shrug. ‘I didn’t know that I was supposed to.’
Caroline looks shocked. ‘Hannah! You must always test out any new product. You can’t just go playing life and death with your skin.’
I allow myself a small laugh. ‘I hardly think this is a life and death situation, Caroline. Let’s get it into perspective, shall we?’
Her response is to spin my chair so that I’m facing the mirror.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. This is so not okay.
I look like I’ve dipped my top lip into a raging inferno. I wonder if I will forever bear the scars of vainly trying to remove the tiny bit of hair that nobody except that little maggot, Brandon Hopkins, ever noticed in the first place.
The new hairdresser wanders over, his scissors in one hand, an industrial amount of mockery and contempt in the other.
‘You know, it looks to me like you’ve removed several layers of skin,’ he tells me helpfully, peering closer. ‘Did you wax the area more than once?’
‘That is a potential possibility,’ I murmur, closing my eyes for a second so that I can avoid seeing the horror on Caroline’s face and the amusement on his. ‘I thought it wasn’t working so I used each strip several times.’
‘And how many strips did you use?’ he enquires.
‘All of them.’ I swallow loudly. ‘Was that wrong?’
There is a brief moment of silence while everyone takes in my words.
‘You waxed your upper lip using all the strips?’ breathes Caroline. ‘How many strips were in the box?’
I think back. ‘Maybe six?’
‘Didn’t you read the instructions at all?’ She is literally incredulous that anyone could be so stupid.
I think we can all agree, Caroline, that it is quite clear that I did not, in fact, read the instructions. Not after the word ‘anus’, anyway.
I nod my head vigorously. ‘Of course I read them. I’m not a complete idiot, you know.’
‘Hmmm.’ The new hairdresser looks at me appraisingly. ‘Then you’ll know that absolutely, under no circumstances, are you supposed to wax the same bit of skin more than once. You’ve given yourself a first degree burn.’
‘Will it take long to heal?’ I think about the fact that I am due in the classroom on Monday morning. I will never live it down if I walk in looking like this.
Caroline tilts her head to one side. ‘It’ll probably take a few days if you treat the burn and stop it from getting infected.’
‘How do I do that?’
The new hairdresser grins at me wickedly. ‘You need to get some of those burn pads from the supermarket and cut one down to size,’ he tells me. I sense that he’s enjoying himself. ‘And then stick it to the affected area.’
I look at him in disbelief. ‘You want me to walk around with a massive pad stuck to my top lip? Are you serious?’
‘I don’t care what you do, lady.’ He puts his hands on his hips and raises his eyebrows at me. ‘It’s your call. Do you want a permanently scarred lip or are you prepared to suffer in the short term?’
He struts back to his client who has been watching the whole thing as if she’s never seen a woman with a mutilated lip before. The rest of the salon resumes their business and Caroline gently spins my chair so that I am once again facing her and not my evil nemesis, the mirror.
‘Let’s get rid of these grey hairs, shall we?’ Her voice is shaking as if she’s trying not to laugh, but I don’t care. I’ve got bigger things to worry about than whether I’ve just made myself a complete laughing stock.
I care. I really, really care.
I sit in silence while Caroline starts slopping hair dye onto my head. I have three choices that I can see.
One: ignore the entire situation. Act normally and pretend that it never happened. If I don’t mention it then maybe nobody else will and my lip will heal before I have to walk into school on Monday.
Two: take the new hairdresser’s advice. Buy a burn pad and walk around looking like Groucho Marx all weekend. Hope that anyone I encounter, including my loving family, doesn’t mock me too enthusiastically.
Three: Wear a balaclava. It is still February, after all. People wear all manner of headgear during the arctic winter months here in southern England.
Okay, so option two is out straight away. Wearing a burn pad is going to look almost as ridiculous as my current appearance. And I don’t think much of option three. I can’t go into the supermarket wearing a balaclava – they have a very enthusiastic security guard who spends his days ensuring that nobody tries to steal the trollies. I’ll be rugby-tackled to the floor and put in a deadlock before I can say ‘lip trauma’.
Not that I can see the first option working too well for me either. I might be able to pretend that this hasn’t happened but there’s no way that my darling children will ignore it.
Which means that I’m going to have to choose door number four.
‘Is Laura in today?’ I ask Caroline. ‘And can you ask her if she has any spare appointment slots.’
And so it is that two hours later, I am sidling down the frozen food aisle with my beautifully manicured hands held out in front of my face. I have chosen a particularly zesty shade of azure blue and my nails are sparkling like the Mediterranean Sea. They will surely distract even the most observant of viewers from the car crash that is going on in the vicinity of my mouth.
And if that fails, then the very teensy bottle of Prosecco that I am currently purchasing will mean that I really don’t care.
The bottom falls out of my car as I pull into the school car park. I know this because the accompanying noise is enough to attract the attention of the teenagers who loiter by the gates; they won’t draw their gaze away from their phones for anything but the direst of emergencies. And from the look of delight on their faces, my ancient old car is breathing its last, fume-filled breath. I won’t hear the end of it when I’m attempting to teach them the finer points of passive voice on Monday morning.
‘Maybe it’s not that bad,’ I tell myself, closing my eyes briefly and clutching the steering wheel. ‘Perhaps I just went over a pothole or a small cat? Maybe this isn’t actually a complete, unmitigated