Truce or Nair

It’s exceedingly rare, but there are those triumphant moments stolen during the day occasionally when the kids finally scatter and you have an entire floor to yourself. It’s only natural that in these moments of quiet, you grab the bottle of Nair and decide it’s time to deforest some of the old growth.

I slathered some of the depilatory on my top lip. Almost immediately, the skin was chemically aflame like Michael Jackson ‘s hair in a Pepsi ad. In a hurry, I was able to remove the substance before the burns set in too deeply (the scarring should go away eventually).

Well, how do you like them hairy horse apples! I’d apparently used Bikini Nair on my face.

With a wet washcloth attempting to coddle away the stabbing pain, I grabbed a different bottle that promised it was ‘more gentle for faces’ than the bikini cream (why did I buy bikini cream? I haven’t shown any navel since I peeled my last orange) and opted to smoothed that cool, white substance under my nose and under my chin instead. All was well. Sure, I now looked like the Big Lebowski . Still, the Dudette Abides.

I looked at the Nair for bikinis and slapped some decidedly on each lower leg.

I admit I don’t remove hair from my legs very often. I mean, who has time? I am usually busy running around after four kids, half of whom exhibit pretty obvious cases of high-functioning autism. The other half are either menstruating or about to menstruate– at any given time.

Adding to this, the last time I tried to shave my legs, Al Gore called me on the phone. He said, “Excuse me, Jamie. I hate to bother you, but I hear you’re going to deforest your legs?”

I said, “Well, sure, Mr. Gore.”

“Could you please not do that?” he continued in his sing-song southern drawl. “Deforestation is one of the most difficult issues we face in the wilderness as our Earth hangs in its delicate balance.”

Oh sure . The Gorminator is telling me to leave the ecosystem on my calves intact, but I have bigger issues around the corner with shorts season. The last time I tried to wear capris locally with sandals, a swank young mother complimented me on my Ugg mukluk boots.

I was past using a razor. I was past using weed whackers. I was now slathering WMD-Weapons of Mass Depilation — on my legs. And why not! This is my time. In the bathroom, hidden behind the door, and with no one to disturb me, or to ask me why I’m shaving my legs with a pet groomer in the back yard (again), I lavished the cream on my legs. Then came the small howls of a wee little man.

Jacques was a petit Quebecois who had built a platform in one of the old growth tree hairs below my left kneecap. “Ooooh non! Non ! Go away, bad perzhon !” he howled, as he waved his hands desperately. The cream came closer to his makeshift hovel. He’d been penned up there for quite some time, hoping to wait out the clear cutting of leg hairs that was going to commence at some point.

“Hey there, little man,” I asserted as a miniscule beret hit my thumb, “Live on a platform and not bathe for 68 days, and all you might have to show for it are potential chemical burns from hair cream. It’s part of the job hazards, buddy.”

I made a concerted effort to steer clear of the small protester out of courtesy. Unfortunately, I found getting around the folks spiking the hairs and handcuffing themselves to some of the older stalks was a little more complex. Still, gotta love their moxie.

I still had some bikini Nair left in the tube when all was said and done, so I threw off my tshirt and starting dabbing my armpits with the stuff haphazardly. I figured if I wasn’t going to try my trick of corn rowing hair all the way from my head to my ankles (they didn’t invite me back for “Wild Kindergarten Mom Talent Night”), I might as well get rid of that, too.

That’s when the phone rang.

It was Leonardo DiCaprio . “Hey. I just wanted to say that Jacques called me.”

“How does he get reception? I can’t even get reception.”

Such a tiny little phone …

“Listen. He’s pretty upset. Why don’t you cut the guy a little slack and stop the devastation?”

“Hey, you listen,” I said, now cross, “Mr. I’m the King of the World in a Prius. You try having such long hair on your legs that your Viet Nam vet father has flashbacks when he sees your ankles. It’s not cool, man. I get this stuff stuck in escalators.”

“Who are you talking to?” I looked over and saw my younger son, who was now ‘frightened younger boy who saw his mom slathered to her pits in Nair Pina Colada Bikini cream having an annoyed discussion with a very small leg hair’. Luckily, son dropped the conversation issue abruptly and ran off yelling, “AhaAa! Mom had weird stuff on her face!”

Later that evening, after working out, I showed my husband that I had successfully removed hair from both legs as I ran through the room on the way to the shower. He surprised me when he said, “Lift your arms.”
I did.

“What happened?!” he looked oddly bemused. That tends to worry me.

I looked down and realized the bottle must have run out of cream about half way through the job. I had one really hairy armpit and one as fresh and clean as a Hollywood starlet 10 minutes out of rehab.

“It’s DiCaprio’s fault,” I declared.I scowled and made my fingers into a little pinch in the air.

Those little phones…