Hair

It was Thanksgiving 2024, and my mom, my aunt, and I were tasked with one of the most grueling challenges in all of human history. 

“You’re my sisters! You’re supposed to do this for me!” my uncle shrieked. 

Indian people, especially Punjabis, are known for having a good amount of hair. Now, not anything like Bigfoot, but more the level of horses and their hairy backsides. I didn’t know how it came to this – I still cannot fathom it – but my uncle had somehow forced my mom and her sister to chemically remove his back hair, with Nair. Nair is a hair removal cream, typically used when someone doesn’t want to shave, wax, or laser their hair. I’m talking about the thick, mayonnaise-like substance that can only go on a person so long or it will burn their flesh off. For some reason, my uncle made it seem like everyone was on a clock, so I quickly ran to find the gloves in my grandparents' messy house. They lay in the coat closet on the top shelf in a small plastic baggie. We only had one pair left, so each sister had a singular glove. They were going one handed. 

My grandmother sat in her recliner and started cutting pieces of cloth towels to wipe the Nair off of his back once the transformation was complete. I was given the task of the timer. I had to set it to 7 minutes. Not 8, not 6, but 7. The precise number for someone of his stature. I took the massive tube of cream in my hand and squeezed it onto the gloved hands of my mom and aunt. They shrieked in disgust. They quickly slathered it all over his back before the sauce could burn through the latex. 

“More!” they yelled. The land area the cream covered seemed too large for that one bottle. 

“Spread it out!” my uncle corrected. 

Finally, the bottle was empty. They covered what they could, and it seemed like an OK job. We sat for what felt like an eternity. My uncle stood, sodden in mayonnaise. 

Suddenly, the timer buzzed in my left hand. “Time!” I alerted everyone. 

Now, it was my grandma’s turn. She had to cut the cloth faster than the women could wipe. It seemed impossible. They wiped and wiped then dropped the soaked rags to their feet, where a massive garbage bag shielded the floor from the hairy mess. I quickly turned around, my head buried into the leather sofa. I unlocked my phone and began scrolling on TikTok, my safe space. Finally, he left the living room to go take a shower. I hoped the excess fluid was scrubbed clean; I couldn’t handle such a sight anymore. 

“Honey, come over here. Stop looking at your phone. Let’s play cards,” my grandmother whispered in her thick accent. 

My mom, aunt, and I gathered at the dining table and took out the tupperware of cards. It was at that moment that my mother found something stuck between her toes. It was an excess chunk of hair glued together by Nair. She shrieked once again. No one flinched. No one moved a muscle. We didn’t know how to react, so we just didn’t. My uncle trudged down the stairs after his refresh. 

“It’s not even,” he complained. “The place where my skin begins and my hair ends is way too visible. There’s no fade,” he criticized. 

That was it. All that work for nothing. 

“You know what, Sim,” my aunt scolded “next time, I’m going with you and we’re waxing your back. Professionally.”