More Than Just Mum. Rebecca Smith

is bugger all there. Not one single strand.

      I am not feeling satisfied in the slightest.

      I lean towards the mirror again, trying to ascertain the current status of my moustache, but the skin is tingling and slightly pink and I can’t tell if the hairs are still there. But it’s okay because this is my first go and sometimes it takes a while to get the knack of doing something technical like this. Otherwise, beauty technicians wouldn’t need to exist, would they? And I have loads more wax strips left. I’ll just keep going until I’ve got rid of them all.

      The next fifteen minutes are not the best fifteen minutes of my life. On a scale from stubbing a toe to giving birth, I would say that the pain threshold hovers somewhere around the time I accidentally shaved off an entire strip of skin from my ankle to my knee. Both the bath and I looked like we’d been involved in a particularly gruesome episode of CSI: The Shires. At least this time there isn’t any blood.

      Finally, when I have waxed over the same piece of upper lip with every wax strip that was in the box, I admit defeat. I haven’t seen a single hair come out and my lip is sore and suspiciously red.

      There are worse things than a slight smattering of hair on my face, I tell myself. I am a grown-ass woman and I do not have to conform to the stereotypes imposed upon me by society. In fact, it is my duty as both a parent and a teacher to educate the next generation and show them, by my example, that it is possible to be successful and professional and intelligent and a worthwhile member of society while sporting a tiny lady-moustache. These things are not mutually exclusive.

      Glancing at the time, I realise that unless I get moving then I’m going to be seriously late. I am experimenting with trying to keep as busy as humanly possible on Thursdays and Fridays, in a pathetic attempt to convince myself that not being at work is a treat and basically a good thing. My plan for today is to pamper myself. I have a lovely, relaxing appointment at the hair salon – which I probably can’t afford, hence the DIY hair removal, rather than paying an extortionate amount for someone else to get up close and personal with my lip-fringe.

      Coaxing Dogger downstairs, I shoo her out into the back garden, so that she can take care of her own personal hygiene, before grabbing my coat. I call her back inside, give her a biscuit, dash out to the hall and pause briefly to appraise myself in the mirror. My face isn’t looking too exhausted, and while my hair is a bit of a state, that’s okay – it would be a complete waste of a salon trip if it weren’t.

      The drive across town is slow due to it being market day. It’s freezing cold but the sun is shining; there is an optimistic sense of spring just around the corner. Despite this, as the minutes tick by, I become increasingly aware that something is wrong.

      Hideously, badly, catastrophically wrong.

      On my face.

      The tingling sensation that I had from the moment I yanked off the first wax strip has increased. In fact, it would be highly inaccurate to even describe it as tingling anymore. It is more an agonising, burning, stinging, throbbing torment that is making it difficult to think about anything else. I brake for a red traffic light and risk a glance in the rear-view mirror.

      Fuckety fuck. My lip looks like I’ve been stung by a thousand bees, and not in a good way.

      Now I come to think of it, who ever thought that ‘bee-stung lips’ could be a positive thing? Nothing good can ever come from being stung by a bee on the mouth. It’s utterly ridiculous.

      A honking noise from behind alerts me to the now-green traffic light. I drive carefully down the road, trying to focus on parking the car safely, all the while wondering if I require immediate medical attention. The sign for the car park is up ahead and I take the corner, gently easing into a space and then turning off the engine before pulling down the sun visor so that I can examine the damage more closely.

      The skin above my mouth is swollen, stretched so taut that it is shiny. But worse than that are the weeping, oozing spots that seem to have appeared from nowhere.

      And I was wrong earlier. There is a little bit of blood.

      On a scale from terrible to fucked up, this is very, very bad.

      And I’m late for my appointment.

      Grabbing my bag, I leap out of the car and race across the car park, my hand held defensively in front of my face as a precautionary measure. I don’t want to upset any small children who may catch sight of me. Dodging between little old ladies with pull-along baskets and mums with prams, I speed down the street and then, with a huge sigh of relief, push open the door and fling myself into the sanctuary of the salon. I will be safe here. They are professionals and their business is to take the lame and make them beautiful again. I am among friends.

      ‘Morning!’ Caroline emerges from the staff area as I catch my breath by the front desk. ‘How’s it going, Hannah? How are your kids? I saw Scarlet in town yesterday afternoon – I can’t believe how tall she’s getting!’

      ‘It’s going really well,’ I mumble, from behind my hand. ‘And the kids are fine, thanks. How about you?’

      What does she mean, she saw Scarlet in town? Scarlet was at school yesterday. Caroline must be confusing her with someone else – maybe she’s got a doppelganger, or a clone. God, what a thought – I love my daughter deeply but two of her is a bit of an overwhelming possibility.

      ‘I’m good, thanks. Shall I take your jacket?’ She reaches towards me for my coat and I realise that I’m going to have to move my hand.

      ‘Thanks, Caroline.’

      I turn my back on her and hastily lower the zip before shrugging the jacket off and turning back to face her, my hand once again in place across my mouth.

      Caroline gives me a slightly weird look but says nothing as she takes a gown from the row of hooks by the door and hangs my coat in its place.

      ‘Just pop this on,’ she tells me. ‘And then come on through.’

      I repeat the performance with the gown and then follow her into the main part of the salon, sitting down at the seat that she is pulling out for me.

      ‘So, what are we doing today?’ she asks my reflection in the large mirror. ‘Same as normal?’

      I smile in agreement and then realise that she can’t see my mouth behind my hand. ‘Yes, please. I need my grey roots sorting out and a quick trim on the ends.’

      ‘No problem! I’ll just mix the colour and then we’ll get started. Can I get you a cup of tea while you’re waiting?’

      A cup of tea would be lovely. It’s exactly what I need to calm myself down after all the stress of the morning. I would kill for a cup of tea right now. But they bring the milk in a little jug here; I will either have to drink black tea or move my hand from my face. Neither of those is an acceptable option right now.

      ‘No thanks,’ I mumble. ‘I’m fine.’

      Caroline shoots me another look before retreating to the staff area and I stare bleakly at my reflection, my hand pressed tightly across my mouth. It seems very unfair that I am sitting in front of the world’s largest mirror, today of all days.

      ‘Here we are then.’ Caroline is back with the tiny amount of dye needed to eliminate my barely-existent grey hair. ‘Shall we make a start?’

      ‘Let’s do it,’ I mutter. ‘Work your magic.’

      She places the bowl on top of her hairdresser trolley and swivels my chair round so that she can begin with the front of my head. I give her an encouraging smile with my eyes and hope that she’s not in a chatty mood.

      ‘Erm, Hannah?’ Caroline looks awkward. ‘I’m going to need you to move your hand. I can’t reach your hair with your arm blocking the way.’

      Bugger.

      I spend three seconds debating the pros and cons of asking her to just dye one side of my head before coming to the harsh realisation