MUERTA VIVIENTE | JENLISA

SIX

"DAY OFF FROM SCHOOL?" SOMEONE asks, and I realize the woman with the sky blue shirt is gone and I've been guided into a room where another woman stands, smiling and ready.

"Skipping," I say, stripping off my clothes, down to one of Lisa's old T-shirts. Smell of her all around me, always.

"I used to do that," the woman says, smiling more, like we share a secret. She has a mole on her face with two hairs growing out of it. You'd think she'd notice a thing like that.

"Ready," I say, lying down, and the woman motions for me to spread my legs.

"You want it all gone?"

I nod.

She is supposed to ask how old I am, and maybe other things. Something. There is a sign out front that says minors must have a parent or guardian present to sign off on all services, and this isn't a desperate, dying store that needs customers. This is a busy, bright place, where women wait and there is a girl whose only job is to ask you if you want anything to drink.  (Coffee? Water? Diet soda?)

It doesn't matter, though. The woman standing over me won't ask any questions. She never does. Never has.

Never will.

She starts to wax. My eyes burn and then water as she rips hair away, stripping my flesh.

It is good for women to look like little girls now, to have no hair between their legs. The women out in the waiting room, the ones who will not look at me, are here for that too, to be made into smooth, hairless creatures.

They will have their skin polished, smoothed, so everyone can pretend they are young again.

Everyone wants the young.