A Yes-Girl

In the summer of 1979, I went on an adventure. I boarded a plane to Mexico City to live with a family for eight weeks. I was only fourteen. I didn't speak much Spanish, and I wanted more than anything to fit in. I decided right then and there, on that flight from Minneapolis to Mexico City, to be a yes girl. I would embrace adventure in whatever form it came!

When asked to go salsa dancing by the dorky cousin, I tried my best to keep my waist still and shake my non-existent hips. When offered a taste of sauteed caterpillars, I plugged my nose and chewed fast. When asked to sing "She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain" to my host sister, Monica's, English class, I belted one out. So, when Monica asked if I wanted to go to the Mexican Beauty Parlor, why would I say anything but, "Yes!" It was an adventure! 

After a hurried breakfast, we headed out to the busy streets of Mexico City. Monica and I had been heavy in the throws of a backgammon tournament over the last several days and at the time she was winning. She was taunting me with a devilish sort of grin in a Spanglish that I could mostly understand. "Ay, no te wooooory. Eet's jus' dat I am muy goood at Backgammo' and chu? Well, no tanto." 

Monica and I got along like spaghetti and meatballs. We just fit. We laughed about everything and never left each other's side all summer long. So there we were, bumbling down the sidewalk, the smell of diesel fuel bullying the air.  We meandered through broken sidewalks avoiding stray poles strangely broken off, street vendors selling baked goods or the famous chicle, little children singing, literally, for their supper, and of course, the sellers of the loteria, the state run lottery. We arrived noisily at the door of the beauty shop giggling and out of breath as only two fourteen year old girls can do. We were hushed as we entered by the stern matronly receptionist and after Monica chatted a moment with her in a Spanish I didn't understand, we were directed to some tattered, plastic covered chairs in a tiled-floor waiting area. Rancho music was playing a little too loudly for me to fully make out what Monica said except for the last part when she said, "Pero, no te preocupes. Lo hacen con mucho cuidado." (Don't worry. They do it carefully.) Whatever it was that they were gonna do, I remember my yes-girl motto and just smiled nervously. As long as I was with Monica, everything had to be okay. 

After a few minutes we were called to the back room behind the curtain. Behind the curtain. Why would we need to go behind a curtain? The beautician and Monica were having a conversation back and forth and then looked at me and said something about the "gringilla" (the little American girl). 

Monica said, "Si, ella tambien." (Yes, her too.) 

Monica took off her shirt and motioned for me to do the same. What in the heck were we doing? 

The woman started stirring a coffee can with a short wooden spoon and said, "Si, esta lista. A quien le toca primero?" (Who's going first?) 

I was relieved when Monica said she'd go first. The lady came over with the coffee can wrapped in a towel, dipped the wooden spoon in and came out with a thick sticky substance. I watched in complete fascination as the woman slid the hot substance over Monica's armpit. Monica winced a little at the heat. The woman smoothed the sticky substance out, blowing on it a bit. Then she patted a little, picked a little corner, said, "Uno, dos, y....tres!" At the moment of "tres", she ripped the substance off of Monica's now bright red armpit and a huge, "Yeooowwwww!" erupted from Monica, followed by a small smile. She proceeded to have the same done to the other armpit, the used wax making a little mound on a nearby table. 

"Don' woooorry, Leeeesa. Eet not hurt tooo bad." 

Waxing our pits? Is that what we're doing? I was just getting over the trauma of watching my friend scream in pain when I looked over to see the beautician getting ready for my turn. She simultaneously stirred the coffee can (which she had now put back on the heat) while pinching the used wax she had so mercilessly pulled from Monica carefully between the long painted fingernails on her middle finger and thumb. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Stirring, stirring, stirring. And then, quick as wink, she dropped the used wax back into the coffee can! My mind began to race. "Gross! Gross! Oh my goodness, if she dropped her wax back in, who else's has she dropped back in? What other person's armpit hair is in there mixed around and awaiting arrival on my virgin pits? I can't do this! I can't do this!" I look over at Monica hoping for a rescue. Surely she just saw what I saw and will figure a graceful way out of here. But instead, she just smiles and says, "Don't wooooorry, Leeesa." So, do I say no? No. I am the yes-girl. My motto was yes. So, I swallow hard, close my eyes, and feel the hot, dirty wax as it is smothered on my pits. 

It was adventure. A real adventure. I learned a lot. Especially to ask a few more questions before I said, "Yes."