I Have...Nads

 Let me explain the title.

I am menopausal, which means, my body has decided that hair has no rules anymore including location. It can grow wherever the hell it wants, and it seems to enjoy being on my face, especially, the parts of my face that at one time, did not play host to hair. It was definitely time to make changes. That’s when I discovered that I fucking hate plucking. It takes forever, it’s painful as hell, and I end up covered with stiff bristles yoinked out of my face that migrate into my bra and make me itch.

So, I tried waxing. Now, the cold wax stuff that you can do at home is not only painful, if you misplace the post wax oil, you’re sticky, and there ain’t nothin’ that’s gonna get that sticky off. After the fourth or fifth time, I decided this was absurd and I called my favorite stylist. I knew she did waxing, so I made the appointment. Up to that point, I’d left the mustache area alone because OUCH!, so when she waxed it, I had to grip the arm rests to keep myself from punching her in the mustache.

She said, “You showed remarkable restraint.”

“You have no idea,” I told her.

Back to plucking for the next 20+ years.

Recently, I did a little research and decided to give a home hot wax thing a whirl. There are several brands out there including a few that you heat up in the microwave. Not wanting to wait for an online order to be shipped, I went to the only place that sells this sort of thing, and is also far enough away from where I live so I won’t be recognized. I don’t have much pride, but what I do have, I tend carefully.

Unlike online, this store only had one brand of hot wax.

Now, I don’t know about other places on the planet, but in my world, “nads” is a slang term for gonads. I do not have gonads. I have never had them, and I’m not of the mindset to get a pair. Not even for my car.

Yet, there I was, wandering around the department store on one of those motorized scooters with a box of nads in the basket. The scooter already attracts unwanted attention, now it was saying, “Look, everyone, she has nads in the basket!” Oh, and the Best Part? I’d forgotten my damn grocery bags, which meant I had to make my way out to the car, past all the folks coming in, clutching a bag of tortilla chips and a box of nads in one hand and wielding my cane with the other. The only thing that could have made the moment worse was if I’d purchased hotdogs at the same time.

The cashier took great pleasure in my predicament, asking if I wanted any help...carrying my nads to the car (she didn’t say that last part, but it was there, dangling overhead, and we both knew it). I declined her generous offer, although it might have been worth seeing the expression on the courtesy clerk’s face when they were handed a box of nads and a bag of tortilla chips.

When I got home, I gently placed my box of nads on the table and looked at my daughter, daring her to say something. She couldn’t, as she was too busy bug-eyeing the box clearly marked “Nads” on the table.

“I finally decided since I can’t grow a pair, I’d buy ‘em.”

“Oh, god mom, really? Are you going to go there?”

“Have we met? Do you not know me?”

“This is going to be one of those really long--”

“Hey babe!” I called to my wife, “I got some nads!”

(from the other room) “S’about time. Who’d you take them off of?” she asked, coming into the dining room.

“Got a box from the store! Didn’t even have to take them off some rude old fart who refused to move his shopping cart.”

“Convenient.” I showed her the box. “Oh, you’re not kidding.”

“Nope. Now, it says I need to put my nads in the microwave until soft.”

Daughter begins to snicker. Wife rolls her eyes.

“It also says if my nads get hard before I’m done, I can put them back in the micro—wait, that seems a little counter intuitive. I mean, well, it hasn’t been THAT long since I’ve had relations with a man, but I’m pretty sure soft is not what--”

“Jeezus, mother!”

“Oh, that’s right, I found you under a rock. Sorry. Anyway, I guess boxed nads are different.”

“Well,” wife says, “maybe it’s whatever makes them shelf stable.”

“Do you think I need to worry about my nads going bad?”

“Mother...really?”

“It rhymes. Bad nads.”

“Is it legal for me to ground you?”

“No.”

“Darn.”

“I taught you better than that, young lady.”

“Goddammit, mother!”

“That’s my girl! Anyway, I’m gonna use my new nads to get my facial hair under control, and I’m gonna do it tonight, so I’m off to nuke my nads!”

Any further conversation was of a similar vein, so I’ll skip it. But… I got my nads all warmed up, sat down at the table and checked the instructions again. They strongly suggested (in bold type, mind you) that I should cover the floor with newspaper. The last time I had to do that, was when we had a puppy that peed on the floor. Were they expecting this to hurt so bad I’d lose control? I was beginning to fear for my face, but everything was ready so I started smearing warm nads on my chin.

It was nice, actually, but lawsy, was it messy! I had that purple stuff EVERYWHERE, and it left these long, strange strings of stiff wax hanging off my face, making me look something like a demented catfish. Daughter looked away, thinking I wouldn’t notice her laughing.

“I have naaaaads,” I sang, “I just bought naaaaads. I stuck them in the microwaaaaave, and now they’re on my face.” That’s when I definitely noticed the laughter, because it was preceded by a spew of coffee.

The wax removal was surprisingly painless, and all the offending hair was in the wax, not my face. In fact, I did my whole face, including the mustache, with painless success. I was pleased. Best of all, it was...easy as… balls!