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“What are you doing today? You’re not meeting your special friend, are you?”
“Wait, what?”
It still stops me in my tracks when my family talk openly about M. Especially when the family member is big sis, the poster girl for arranged marriages to boys from back home.
“No,” I reply. “The only friend I’m meeting today is Sophia. Though I guess she’s pretty special, as I rarely get to see her these days now she’s got a baby.”
Big sis furrows her brow.
“Don’t worry,” I say, reading her look of disappointment. “I’m not seeing her until later. I’ll still have time to squeeze in most of the shops in Rusholme.”
Big sis has come up for the weekend and she’s very excited to see some sarees. This is on the agenda every time she visits regardless of whether she has any intention of buying or there’s even an event that warrants such a purchase. She just loves the haggling.
However, on this rare occasion, big sis actually is in need of an outfit or two. As well as the summer weddings on her husband’s side of the family, we’ve got a cini paan coming up at the end of the month. This Bengali engagement ceremony couldn’t be more different to the English equivalent, where a couple host a fun, informal gathering with no intention of setting a wedding date (though there might be the vague mention of some point in the next two years). Our parties very much conform to the rules of getting engaged to be married. Usually a date is decided during the cini paan itself. Oh, and it’s in the not-too-distant future. As in, less than six months away.
I once asked mum why our engagements are so short, leaving next to no time to plan a decent wedding. Her reply was surprisingly sensible: “Gives people less time to stir trouble.”
In church weddings, the vicar will ask at the altar if anyone has a reason for the wedding not to go ahead, giving guests less than a minute to object. We, however, have the entire duration from the time we are engaged to the date of our wedding for someone to throw a spanner in the works. That’s why we keep that time as brief as possible, thank you very much. It makes perfect sense.
The happy couple whose engagement we are attending is auntie Jusna’s youngest daughter Hassna and... well, I don’t know the groom. As if we’d get to meet him informally ahead of the wedding. All we’ve been told is that the marriage was of the arranged variety (wink wink, hello internet dating, marriage events and covert hunting). I shouldn’t really speculate but I will anyway.
While we live in a white area, we have Asian shops galore just a short drive away. Sis however, has spent the last 12 years having to commute over an hour just to get halal meat. So saree shops are a real novelty, as are halal takeaways. Big sis loves a seekh kebab with all the sauces and salad.
I, on the other hand, am not very enthused for either. I guess I take them for granted. However, as a dutiful hostess (read: the only one in the household who can drive), I assume my usual role as a chauffeur and haggling wing woman. En route to Rusholme, we drive through Longsight, one of the most densely Bangladeshi-populated areas in Manchester. As I make my way through an aggressive stream of traffic (rather skilfully, if I do say so myself), I see big sis’ eyes light up.
I know what’s coming.
“Shall we check out the accessory shop?” she asks.
“You mean the one we always do? We never drive past this place without stopping off.”
Big sis laughs. “Oh lady, you know me too well. Only if you can find parking. I know how hot and bothered you get on this busy road.”
After conducting a rather undignified six-point-park to squeeze into a generously sized parking space, much to the annoyance of the aggressive drivers on the road, we indulge in a spot of my sister’s favourite pastime – looking with her eyes with no real intention to purchase.
As soon as we enter the shop, which has wall-to-wall bangles in every colour imaginable, big sis makes a discovery. “Ooh lady, it says they do eyebrows here. For a fiver.”
“Well, that’s a bit more than I’m used to paying but then again, I don’t have a regular threading lady after the last one,” I say to big sis’ raised, judgmental and only slightly untamed eyebrow.
“You and your fussy ways,” says big sis. “You expect five-star service for £3.50.”
“No, I just don’t expect to be left waiting with one bushy eyebrow while the beautician goes and talks on the phone for half an hour.”
Big sis rolls her eyes as she knows I’m exaggerating. “Anyway, shall we do it? Mine need a little tidy, and yours...”
There she goes again, judging.
“Yes, I know I’m long overdue. I’d tweeze them myself if I wasn’t so cack-handed. Anyway, I still think £5 is way too much.”
Big sis pats my arm. “I’ll treat you, lady. What with me not working and you in a high-powered job, it’s the right thing to do.”
We head up the rickety wooden stairs of the accessory shop to be greeted with an assault on the senses. The heady smell of hairspray and nail polish is amplified by the constant hum of hairdryers. All the years of visiting this place and I never knew upstairs was a full-on beauty parlour.
As we lower ourselves into the slouchy, well sat-in faux leather sofa, I notice that we’re in the company of a very mixed bag of clientele. The glamorous girl next to us doesn’t look like she needs her eyebrows - or anything - done. Even her casual Saturday topknot doesn’t have a hair out of place.
I, meanwhile, am sporting full brow regrowth and while I can boast of thick straight hair, I do precisely eff all with it. My go-to is an unintentionally low-slung ponytail. I really should get a chop before my next meeting with M. My layers need addressing.
However, it’s not all glamour in this parlour. Salwar-kameez clad mums whose young children are running a-mock about the place, are getting their eyebrows done and upper lips waxed. There’s even an old lady having a facial. All of us are bonded by the need to be groomed.
Big sis whispers terribly loudly in my ear: “Gosh, even the heifers get their eyebrows done,” as if grooming should discriminate on size.
I say nothing.
The wait for eyebrows is long. I decide to peruse the bridal makeup portfolio to pass the time.
“You’ll be needing that soon!” big sis elbows me in the ribs. “Mum said things have moved on a notch.”
“Yeah, I think they’re in the process of sorting out dates now. Which is easier said than done as we’re having the wedding and walima together.”
Big sis scrunches up her nose. “Hmmm, yes. That’s the new way of doing things, I guess.”
She’s a stickler for tradition and harks back to the good old days when the bride and groom hosted individual parties, a wedding and walima respectively. My purist older sister had two big fat Bangladeshi wedding parties back home. However, families these days like to amalgamate. This is especially the case when the couple live within reasonable proximity to each other. With M’s family just outside Manchester, we’ll be going down that route.
I’m slightly disappointed about the two-in-one job, mainly because I wanted to be a princess for two days. When it comes to other people’s weddings, I’m never the princess, so I want to milk my special occasion for all its worth. There’s also this tricky matter of doing things together whilst ensuring that each side is happy with the arrangement - the venue, the catering, the decor... the budget. Just thinking about it is making me nervous. While Julia would say moving in with a boyfriend is the real litmus test for compatibility, for us, the test comes when we plan a wedding. This is where things can start to unravel.
A tall, broad-shouldered lady ambles towards us. “Are you waiting?”
There is no queue or appointment system so it’s a bit of a lucky dip as to who will be seen first.
“Yes, just eyebrows please for both of us,” I say.
The beautician does an exaggerated double eyebrow raise as she examines mine. Cheeky cow. Big sis doesn’t get the same grooming-shaming. She plucks her eyebrows as threading isn’t a thing where she lives, so she’s slightly more on top of her follicular affairs than I am.
After appraising our faces, she asks in her deep South Asian accent: “Upper lip, too?”
“No thank you, just eyebrows.” After visiting beauty parlours for nearly a decade, this question no longer offends me.
“Are you sure? It’s only £2 extra and you both got a bit of moustache.”
Okay, now I’m offended.
“No thank you!” says big sis. “We’re saving them for an engagement party in two weeks. We’ll sort out our ‘taches then, once they’re a bit... hairier.”
Good save. Financially, I mean. Our dignity was sacrificed with her answer.
“Okay. Your choice. Just so you know we are running a special offer on full facial waxing for just £7.”
That changes things.
Big sis looks at me. “What do you think, little lady? I bet that’s what Rashda does. Her face always looks so peeled and smooth.”
Well, if it’s good enough for Rashda...
Before I know it, the burly beautician whisks me off into another private room, while big sis gets her eyebrows threaded before her turn with the wax.
I’ve had my arms waxed before but my face has never been touched. I’ve always wondered whether it would make me look lighter and brighter. My sideburns always sport a little peach fuzz, which I wouldn’t mind losing. I’ve also noticed that when I get my eyebrows threaded and the beautician is feeling generous enough to take some forehead hair off, my whole face looks cleaner. Such is the power of facial hair removal.
Instead of having to recline backwards over a non-reclining chair with the rest of the mere mortals outside, I’m lying down like a queen on a chaise lounge. Well, it’s actually a blue faux leather salon bed that’s peeling at the creases and covered with a long sheet of what looks like toilet paper. Still, at least I get to lie down.
The beautician gets to work in her laboratory. As she warms a plastic pot of wax, there is no small talk. That’s another thing with Asian beauticians. They never ask you about your holidays. Thankfully they never ask if you’ve got a boyfriend either. I remember one such incident at uni when the hapless trainee hairdresser was struggling for topics of conversation, so resorted to endlessly asking me whether I had a significant other. I didn’t and didn’t care for the reminder. Reena, meanwhile, was sat on the next chair chatting ad nauseam about her prick of a boyfriend Pritesh, while her hair was fashioned into a feathered style. She droned on about what he bought her for their first anniversary, where they planned to go on holiday after graduation and how they were totally, totally getting married.
It’s ironic that now I have finally met someone and we’re about to get married, I’m lumbered with a beautician that doesn’t care to ask. That reminds me, I must book a hair appointment at Belinda’s soon. We have much to discuss.
“Okay, while wax get hot, first I take off your eyebrows.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to think before shouting: “Hold!”, the standard instruction deployed by all beauticians, which means stretch the skin on your brow bone with each hand to make it easier for them to grab those pesky hairs with the thread.
This beautician is swift and merciless. She seems to be digging into my brow bone with the thread more than necessary. Her nails are long talons that keep catching the delicate skin on my eyelid. I don’t mind the odd bit of spit that flies out from her mouth as she’s got thread clenched between her teeth. That’s pretty standard procedure. I’m even ignoring the moment when some of her saliva lands on my lip. I must recount this to big sis so she can no longer say I expect a five-star service.
By some small mercy, the threading is over before the waterworks really get going. The scary beautician then dips a lollipop stick into the oozy wax before spreading it like butter across my forehead.
“Ooh! That’s a bit hot!” I’m being polite. My skin feels like it’s corroding.
“No worry. It take time to cool down.” She proceeds to place her cloth, which may or may not have been washed between uses, firmly across my skin before pulling off with a snap.
It hurts like hell. And this is coming from a girl who regularly gets her eyebrows pulled out from the root with a piece of string.
I just want this to be done. Thankfully, the aggressive smoothing and pulling method is over in about three minutes. Clearly I’m not as hairy as she made out. Cheeky cow.
She doesn’t ask me to check to see if I’m happy with the result. Nor does she hand me a mirror, as is customary. I have to check myself in the large mirror in front of me. After one look I wish I hadn’t. My eyebrows don’t look even and my face is red raw. I’m too scared to complain in the confines of this room where there aren’t any witnesses.
I step back into the safety and coolness of the main area to see big sis having a blazing row with the poor beautician that threaded her eyebrows. Well, it’s less of a row and more of a one-sided slanging match on my sister’s part. The poor beautician, a petite looking thing, looks bewildered.
“You expect me to pay for this! Look what you’ve done!”
Sis interrupts her ranty monologue and turns to face me. Her brow bone is an angry shade of scarlet, her eyebrows are wonky like mine and the beautician has taken too much off the bottom, leaving my sister with a surprised look.
“Look what she’s done to me, lady!” Then her expression changes as she realises it could’ve been a lot worse. “Oh dear. I might not bother getting my face waxed. I’m not that hairy anyway.”
No sarees were bought that afternoon.
***
SOPHIA KEEPS LOOKING at my singed sideburns. Heck, I think her baby is even fixated by my over-peeled face. I must look like the skin of a pink grapefruit, all bumpy and textured.
Still, it’s nice to see Sophia. It’s been ages. The girl who was once my confidante in all things manhunt based, is busy in the throes of motherhood. I bet she’s got new mum friends, too, but isn’t telling me to spare my feelings. I’m sad to say we don’t seem to have as much in common anymore.
“I’m so glad things are moving on with you and M. Really moving on! So you’ll basically be getting married this year.”
“It looks that way.” I still can’t quite believe it when I say it out loud. I’M GETTING MARRIED! I’M GETTING MARRIED! I’M GETTING FOOKIN’ MARRIED!
“Do you have a date set?”
“No, it’ll be decided near the time of the engagement.”
“I’d like to take special credit, as I convinced you to give him a chance when you were being a shallow cow,” Sophia smiles.
“Of course. I’d be harassing you for advice every other day. I miss those days a bit. I miss you, in fact.”
I feel a bit cringe being such a needy friend, so I lower my gaze to my delectable plate of starters. I’m already on my second piece of chicken tikka and third samosa. Sophia has barely touched her food, just like the last time we had a lunch date here for my 26th birthday. It’s like she doesn’t know how a buffet works. Surely the constant queue of people at the counter lined with round silver food servers should be enough of a hint. Though this time she has another reason. Baby Imran is not playing ball. He’s bobbing his head on and off her boob as she discreetly tries to feed him under her shawl. I’m impressed that she is brave enough to breastfeed in public. I don’t think I could do it.
“Sorry hon, what were you saying?” she asks in between shushing a restless Imran, who’s proceeded to kick the table with his deliciously chubby baby grow clad legs.
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s nothing,” I say. “I’m just glad there’s progress. For a second, I thought his mum didn’t like me and I was worried I’d be back on the dating site again. Do you remember how I nearly resigned myself to a life of eternal singledom? Especially after mum suggested that pizza boy and -”
“Oh bubba! What’s the matter? Do you need a nap? Shall we get home? Shall we go brum brum in the car?” Sophia clearly isn’t saying this to me. She’s bouncing Imran on her knee (after taking him off the boob, of course. I don’t think anyone’s that good at multitasking).
She finally turns her attention to me, unaware that she missed everything I just said. “He’s been so restless these last few days. I don’t know what it is. I can’t tell if he’s doing it for attention or he has a touch of reflux.”
I’ve never heard of reflux so I’m guessing it’s attention the little fella’s after.
Sophia looks distracted and harassed. She’s still beautiful. She snapped back to her pre-baby size just two months after giving birth. She still dresses immaculately with her moss-coloured nursing-friendly wrap dress. From what I hear from her sporadic text messages, she’s got a packed schedule of baby club, baby massage and monkey music. She’s even considering quitting work once her maternity leave is up, so she can be a stay-at-home mum and make time for everything and everyone. Well, almost everyone.
As she faffs about with Imran, I see a look I don’t recognise from when my sisters were new mums. Kind of... vacant.
“Do you mind if we call it a day, hon? Oh God, sorry, you’ve not even finished your food. At least you’ve had one more plate than me. Let me get this and I promise I’ll make it up to you next time. We’ll have a proper catch up. I’ll get Adnan to watch Imran. I really ought to start delegating more.”
This is how most of our conversations go of late. I’m ignored and left hanging with the promise of a more meaningful conversation the next time. Sophia got pregnant after a long and painful journey, so I understand her not wanting to miss a moment of motherhood. That doesn’t stop me missing her, though. She only came into my life last year. I’m not quite ready to lose her to her new mum life.
Sophia throws £20 on the table which doesn’t even cover her half, let alone the entire bill. I let it pass.
Just before she leaves, she leans in. “Hon, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
Oh, maybe she’ll apologise for being so elusive.
“It’s just I couldn’t help but notice... I think you’ve burnt your skin. Have you tried a new cream or something? I’d get that checked out.”
***
EN ROUTE HOME, I MAKE a pit stop to the salon that scarred me. I’m going to do it. I’m going to complain and demand a refund, or at least some kind of remedy. I cannot go to Hassna’s engagement with third-degree burns.
“What can I do for... oh.” The hapless teenage beautician that performed a terrible eyebrow job on my sister doesn’t have the best poker face. “Did that happen here?”
“Yes. And you need to give me a refund. Plus, what can you do to fix it?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Well, you need to do something. This is your fault and I have a wedding next week.”
I’m feeling a bit braver as this girl is much more timid than the scary Mary that waxed me. Plus, changing the occasion and bringing the date forward gives a greater sense of urgency to my demand. They might offer me the luxury facial to make up for it.
“If you can’t do anything for me, I want to see your manager.” Ooh! I’m liking my attitude.
The teenager scuttles away before returning with her manager, who just happens to be the burly, heavy-handed beautician.
“What is it?” she barks.
Today is not my day.