Page 31 of Reach Around

Gisele grins. “Time for phase two—manicure. Hands up, let’s see what we’re working with.” She guides me over to the nail station, and soon I’m sitting beside Lynsie, both of us getting our nails done while we swap stories and try not to knock over the drying lamps.

“Just wait until you try reading that magazine without ruining your nails,” Lynsie mutters, elbowing a stack of glossy pages that flutters to the floor. I reach to help, forgetting my hands are mid-manicure, and nearly tip over. Marla catches me with a laugh. “Easy, honey. Let’s not start a domino effect. You’re here to be pampered, not to perform slapstick.”

As my nails dry to a perfect finish and Gisele returns for makeup touch-ups, I catch my reflection and can’t help but feel a bit more like the woman I see in their encouraging smiles—a little more daring, a little more ready for whatever the evening might bring.

Of course, that false sense of security lasts about three minutes. The second I start nervously joking about “what if I actually have to take my clothes off tonight?”—Gisele and Lynsie pounce like wolves on a limping deer. Gisele just arches an eyebrow, says, “Oh, honey, we’re fixing that next,” and before I can protest, I’m being hustled past a row of shampoo bowls, Lynsie at my elbow, Marla blocking the exit, all of them cackling like they’ve waited their whole lives for this exact ambush. By the time I realize where we’re headed, Gisele’s already waving a strip of wax in the air like a white flag and Lynsie’s whispering, “Welcome to the club, sister.”

“Wait, are we really doing this? I thought we were just joking. Lynsie? You’re supposed to be the voice of reason! You said a full bush was okay!” My protest is met with cackling and a conspiratorial wink from Gisele—clearly, I never stood a chance.

Gisele snaps her gloves on with a dramatic snap, nodding at the tiny folding screen in the corner. “Alright, Parnell. Here’s the drill. Pants off, dignity optional. There’s a basket for your clothes and a sheet for whatever’s left of your modesty.”

I give Lynsie a wild-eyed look, but she just smirks. “Don’t worry, Gisele’s seen it all. And if she hasn’t, she’ll Google it.”

I mutter something about hazard pay and shuffle behind the screen, wriggling out of my leggings and underwear with as much grace as a one-legged baby deer. There’s always that awkward moment where you’re not sure if you should fold your clothes neatly or just stuff them into the basket and pretend this isn’t your life.

By the time I hop back out, I’m clutching the sheet around my waist, feeling exposed in ways that go far beyond skin. Gisele gestures me onto the table with all the gravity of a surgeon, while Lynsie queues up a playlist labeled “Pain, Party, Repeat.”

So with Gisele jokingly referring to this space as ‘the pain palace,’ I find myself lying on a stark white table, draped with a thin sheet that does little for modesty or warmth. Gisele, ever the professional, preps her tools with an efficiency that’s both reassuring and deeply, deeply terrifying.

She glances down at me, latex gloves snapping. “Alright, Jo, time for some real talk. If this night goes the way you want—and let’s be honest, with Brogan, there’s about a 99% chance it’ll end with his head between your thighs—you don’t want him to have to bushwhack his way through the Amazon, you feel me?”

My cheeks burn hotter than the wax pot. “God, is it really that bad? I mean, it’s not like I’m braiding it for winter.”

Gisele grins, all teeth and wicked cheer. “Babe, men like Brogan—himbo energy, gold medal in oral, but zero map-reading skills. The last thing you want is for him to get lost in a thicket and need a rescue flare. Because he’d probably call Shepto bring one on over. Let’s do us both a favor and make it a scenic overlook, not a national forest.”

I groan, clutching the edge of the table. “Fine, fine! Just do it before I change my mind. But if he makes one Tarzan joke, I’m blaming you.”

Gisele, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, holds up a spatula dripping with hot wax. “No worries. I’m giving you the hooker special,” she announces, which does nothing to calm my nerves.

“I’m not a prostitute, G. I’m actually a little insulted,” I retort, half-joking, half-mortified.

“Not like that,” Gisele laughs, miming a fish being hooked. “A hooker special.”

“So, I’m bait,” I conclude, the absurdity of the conversation momentarily distracting me from the imminent application of wax.

“Just have fun,” Gisele advises, her tone light as she begins the procedure.

The first application of wax is a shock to the system. My body tenses, and a sharp intake of breath fills the small room. Lynsie’s hand finds mine, squeezing in solidarity or perhaps in apology for her enthusiastic endorsement of this torture.

As Gisele starts, I grip the edge of the table like I’m about to take off for space. She’s talking—something about Sorrowville’s latest drama and a rogue squirrel at the bakery—but all I can focus on is the molten-lava-wax she’s smoothing onto my most sensitive skin.

“Ready?” she asks, way too chipper.

“Define ready,” I manage, squeezing my eyes shut.

The first rip is biblical. Stars explode behind my eyelids. I bite back a scream and instead let out a strangled, “Mother of—!”

Lynsie laughs from her perch by the mini fridge. “Told you it was character-building, Parnell.”

Gisele’s hands are quick, but that doesn’t mean it’s not torture. I’m sweating, legs shaking, clutching the sheet for dear life. She keeps going. And each time, the sting makes me question every life choice that led me to this moment.

But Gisele’s still talking, her voice a soothing backdrop as she works with the efficiency of a woman who’s seen it all and probably owns three separate first aid kits. By the end, I’m limp, my dignity somewhere under the table, but at least the pain has started to fade into a weird kind of pride.

“You’re doing great,” my friend encourages as she applies another strip. The conversation turns to the holiday party, and for a moment, I’m just another woman preparing for a special night out, not someone lying on a table questioning her life choices.

The session ends with Gisele applying a soothing lotion that cools the burning sensation. As I sit up, slightly wobbly and feeling a type of clean I never knew I needed—or wanted—I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“See? Not so bad,” Gisele says, helping me off the table. I pull my pants back on far more gently than normal.

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