Shaving Parts--Send in the Clowns

The world is too heavy today; let’s take a walk on the light side.

The Huffington Post had a fluff piece (oh, God, the double entendre has started already) a week or so ago about the meanings, deliberations and judgments concerning the practice of women shaving—well—ummh—parts, yes, let’s call them parts!  Ignoring the frequently heated comments that accompanied this article, and excusing the questionable subject matter to begin with, what I immediately thought of was, of all things, my mother.  No, not for the reason you might think.  Read on.

My mother was a Victorian leaning woman in all matters save those economic and vocational.  She thought all women should work outside the home and keep a tight eye on income and outgo.  She had a paying job every day of her life, trained more than one of her bosses and expected each of us girls to pay for our own clothes and transportation the day we got our first paycheck.  Beyond that, however, she was straight out of another century.  Modesty and detachment from all things even remotely sexual (please use the British pronunciation here) were NOT part of any discussion. 

As she got older and entered the final years of her life she suffered from the mental depredations of dementia to one degree or another.  Getting frailer in both body and mind, two things happened simultaneously.  First she continuously complained of being hard of hearing, at the same time the mental filters that make us all civilized people began breaking down.  These two factors all came to a fore two days before my niece's wedding. 

There are three things that need to be made clear before understanding the events that followed.  First, with her deteriorating health Mom was living with my sister and it was her daughter who was getting married.  Second, Mom’s hearing was not as bad as she claimed and she seemed perfectly capable of hearing what she wanted.  Third, Mom could never pass up a chance to deliver a sermon about thrift.

I was visiting my sister, helping with preparations for the wedding.  The afternoon in question, I was helping prepare a family dinner that would include the fiancé’s family.  As usual, all the action was happening in the kitchen, a large room with a sunny breakfast nook that was Mom’s perpetual hangout.  There she sat, complaining about not being able to hear well enough to join the conversation, drinking her never ending cup of coffee (did I say we were Norwegian?) and nibbling on a sweet roll. 

My niece came in after a day at the spa.  She was showing off the mani/pedi and talking about how nice the full body massage was.  Her Mom then asked her, “Did you get what you were talking about?” 

Niece blushed a little and said, “Yes, I went ahead and got a Brazilian.”  Her voice was low, she was including only her mother and me, but we didn’t count on Mom’s selective ears.

            “What’s a Brazilian?” was Mom’s clarion question. 

Niece looked at her mother, and my sister looked at me—after all I’m the oldest, it is only right for me to fall on this grenade.  Thinking fast, I told Mom that Niece had gotten her legs waxed (all successful lies have some element of truth) and that Brazilian referred to the type of wax.  I then asked Mom if she wanted more coffee and another sweet roll.  Diversion is important for the mentally weak.

We thought we had skated by on the whole thing until the middle of the family dinner.  Mom suddenly began regaling the table with how Niece was wasting money on some special wax called a Brazilian.  She then went on to moralize about how she, “…would never waste money on a Brazilian.  You wouldn’t get me to get some Brazilian.  No body needs a Brazilian.”  It went on an on.  The table turned into a cafeteria.  All I could do was offer more coffee. 

Get a hot wax and keep the faith.