Don't Shoot! I'm Just the Avon Lady! by Birdie Jaworski Read Free Book Online

He stood firm, though, only grunted once. “Oh, and Ulak! One more thing! I read the instructions and it says that the hair must be between one-quarter inch and one-half inch long. I think we may have a little, uh, problem, as I suspect your back hair may be slightly longer than a half-inch. We may have to do a little pre-wax trim.” It was at least three inches long, maybe four, I remembered, but didn’t want to embarrass Ulak any more than was needed.
    “Birdie. I will measure my hairs. Goodbye.” He slammed down the receiver.
    That night we ate rich cake with sploots of good homemade whipped cream, and I blended a pitcher of mango margaritas and poured them into salt-rimmed glasses. It was during Ulak’s third margarita that he made this announcement:
    “Birdie! I have measured the back hair and you were right. They were too long. So I did a little trim myself. In the mirror. I don’t think I did a bad job.” Ulak pulled up the bottom of his red polo shirt and turned around at the table. Marty and Louie leaned in close to get a good look. His back was slightly less hairy, and if you could call a weed-whacked back an improvement, well, this was a bit better. Better for waxing, anyway. I shot back the last of my second margarita and stood up. “I think we need another pitcher, Ulak. You know, to get through the next phase here.”
    I dragged two kitchen chairs to the bedroom and instructed Marty and Louie to stay seated on those chairs for the entire project. I pointed to the bed and told Ulak to remove his shirt and lie, face down.
    I laid the instruments of torture on the bed next to Ulak. Twenty fabric hair-removal strips, the hot wax, a spatula for application, and the camera. I noticed how his back hair fell straight below his pants, probably to a full-haired butt, so I knelt over him, hands on my hips, and pondered out loud. “Geeze. Your hair goes so low. What the heck am I going to do? I don’t want to get wax on your pants. Maybe you should just take them off...” but before I had a chance to finish my thoughts, Ulak interrupted me.
    “No! Below the belt belongs to Turkey!”
    The wax spread easily on Ulak’s back. I made sure to wipe the spatula in the direction of hair growth. I pressed a fabric swatch in the direction of growth, rubbed it vigorously as directed, and with a hearty “1, 2, 3!” I yanked it off in the proper direction. Ulak’s eyes watered, but he didn’t yelp. He reached his arm down to the floor, grabbed his margarita glass, and tipped the remnants of his fifth drink down his throat. I stared at the fabric in my hands, the sheer amount of long back hair, and almost tossed my tequila all over my poor subject, all over my bed.
    “Birdie. Does a person need a beautician’s license to perform this kind of operation?” Ulak looked hopeful that I might decide I’d done enough, but I soldiered on.
    “Um, I think my Avon Representative status allows me to wax back hair of Turkish friends, Ulak.”
    I forgot Marty and Louie were watching, they sat silent as statues, eyes riveted to the wax and fabric and the heave-ho of the Mothership muscling hair off her swarthy friend. Ulak’s back looked sleeker but grew angry and red from irritation. The boys tired of back hair removal inspection and left the room. I heard them tackle the dog, and the yelps of feral boys and pooch alike filled the house.
    The splotches spread across his skin like sidewinder tracks in the sand. The wax coated my hands until they looked like refugees from Madam Toussaud’s museum. I picked flecks of gunk off each finger as Ulak stood and stretched. He twisted his head to look at his back in the mirror and grunted approval.
    Ulak continued to twist. He reached behind with one hand and rubbed a particularly raw spot. He winced. I cursed my decision to have margaritas two nights in a row. The room swayed as Ulak pondered his new look. He coughed three times, then grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head. Marty