Christine the Machine
“What does T.S. Eliot know about you?/He knows nothing in particular/But you talk and talk as if he do…” whines a New York indie rock singer through the threading salon’s speaker system.
The owner, Fern, a 45-year-old hippy, India-phile who was born and raised on the Upper West Side but now lives in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, makes CDs of her favorite music and plays them all day, every day. She bought the salon with inheritance money as souvenir of her year teaching English in New Delhi, and then renovated it to more Western tastes. Now it resembles an East Village bar with gray walls, rock music and an abstract logo. On her Facebook profile she announces, “Americans should think more of India than just curry, dysentery, Slum Dog Millionaire and call centers.” She regularly fantasizes that threading, the exacting, low-overhead hair removal process popular in India, will be the new California Roll, General Tso’s Chicken or Chipotle. And she will have started it all. It will be her contribution. That’s why it took so much nerve for her to hire Christine.
Christine, the only non-Indian working in the salon, is strung up like a Marionette. White thread zigzags from her mouth and down around both hands forming an X between her palms, almost like Cat’s Cradle. She puts the crisscrossed center of the X against the brow of a slightly overweight, young blonde. She shimmies the X of the thread a few millimeters forward and back to trap delinquent brow hairs in its twisted center. And she pulls. The blonde’s face tightens holding back a cringe. Little golden hairs fly up like confetti. She starts the process again. Loosen, trap, pull. The blonde remains taut.
The depressive singer croons, “When I rip off the mask/You wanna hang with Slash/Smoke bong hits by a heated pool.”
The blonde, over her initial fear, starts to chat. “I was thinking of treating myself to some Rugala at the Jewish deli down the street. They make the best, ever Rugula. I love it. It’s my reward for going through this.”
Christine doesn’t pause. She’s used to distraction. At the Korean salon where she used to work, she’d chat all day with her co-workers. Loosen, trap, pull. They’d talk about Rain, the Korean Michael Jackson. Loosen, trap, pull. About Jang Dong-gun, the hot leading man. Loosen, trap, pull. About their kids. Loosen, trap, pull. About their families back home. Loosen, trap, pull.
Pop! Christine’s thread snaps in half against the girl’s uneven brow. “So sorry!” she whispers flicking her eyes up to the owner working the cash register. Did she hear? Did she see? Christine grabs the spool in her apron pocket and unravels a new piece of thread with a swift pull.
The blonde opens her eyes. “Have you ever been there? To the deli? Had Rugala?” she asks with almost forceful friendliness.
“Deli?” Christine whispers, jostling her mind from the thread to the girl. “No, no,” she says and grabs the new thread between her lips. The blonde closes her eyes. Christine begins again. Loosen, trap, pull. Hairs fly up and hairs float down. They’re like snow in a just shaken snow globe. Loosen, trap, pull. Loosen, trap, pull. Christine’s head bobs forward to loosen the X and leans backward to tighten it. Then back, then forward, then tighten, then loosen. Over and over and over again.
“Oh, you should definitely try it once. The chocolate Rugala is the best. But, god, I shouldn’t eat it. Too many calories. But you’re so slim. You don’t have to worry about that,” he blonde continues, eyes closed, mind avoiding the hair-pulling pain.
“You read half a book/Then you say, “take a look/T.S. is my new best friend!” the singer gripes.
He sounds miserable, thinks Christine. Loosen, trap, pull. Strange these young ladies like to listen to this, she thinks. Loosen, trap, pull.
Pop! “So sorry! So sorry!” she yelps. The apology louder than the thread’s pop. She looks up. Fern is staring at her. Christine bows her head down in to a deep nod. She’s doing a bad job, bad job. Bad job. She scolds herself.
“It’s ok. I’ve got strong hairs,” the girl explains.
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