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So it turns out that Mrs Singh is blooming amazing. As she examined the giant lehenga, which was drowning my frame, she used her hands to measure how much length would need to be taken off. Proper old school. She then double checked with her measuring tape. Less old school but, after the boob made by the shop it came from, I appreciated her being thorough.
“So, I will have to take this much off,” she gestures with her tiny, bangle-laden hands spread apart the width of a ruler. I’ve never seen someone pair gold wedding bangles with a flowery shirt and beige tailored trousers but more power to her for blending east and west with such aplomb.
Part of me is crying inside at the prospect of cutting so much off my beloved outfit. Another part of me is wondering what she’ll do with the leftover material and, more to the point, the leftover stonework. I reckon she’d get about 100 crystals from the bit she is taking off. However, I don’t think I can really ask her to keep them for me in a doggy bag.
“So, is it quite straightforward, then?” I ask, rather optimistically getting into haggling mode. I’ve only got my teenage sister with me for support and I know she won’t be any help. I must head into this battle alone.
Mrs Singh shakes her low ponytail slung head, letting some of her grey hair fall loose. “No, it’s not straightforward. Not easy. Not at all. I’ve got to re-cut the blouse, and individually pick apart all the stones for the skirt. It will be very difficult. Take long time.”
I hear my purse crying at the bottom of my bag. This wedding is already costing my side of the family upwards of £20,000, though to be fair mum and dad have absorbed the bulk of the cost thus far (they keep insisting we’ll sort it later). Mrs Singh has got me over a barrel. She’s doing this for me at such short notice, getting it ready literally the day before my nuptials. She can name her price and she knows it. I don’t want to ask her but I have to.
“It will be £30,” she says.
“O-kay, that’s fine.” I try to hide the sheer relief in my voice.
Honestly, she should charge more. Though obviously I won’t tell her that.
“Will you definitely have it done in time?”
I’m a bit nervous about it not being ready until the day before. What if it still doesn’t fit? Or it’s too small? The thought is making me hot and I don’t want to sweat through my lehenga blouse.
She looks straight at me and I can see the deep lines etched under her eyes, as though she’s absorbed the stress of every flapping bride-to-be. As she rests one hand on my shoulder and raises the other, she says: “You see these fingers? They got permanent needle marks. I hand stitched stones on lehengas for 20 years for the top boutiques in Manchester. I don’t make mistakes. I don’t make false promises. I don’t let people down.”
She can keep those damn crystals.
***
ON THE WAY HOME I GET predictably lost and my phone redirects me, at which point I realise how close Mrs Singh lives to Sophia. In a normal scenario I’d have dropped her a text before swinging by for a cup of tea and a chat. There is nothing normal about this, so off I head to my next appointment of the day.
***
“I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE you have to do this,” says little sis, who has put her phone down in favour of a five-year-old copy of Asiana magazine that’s on the coffee table at the beauticians.
“Well, I don’t technically have to do it but you know, I don’t want to be a hairy-Mary bride,” I say.
“I get that but are you going to wax everything?” She winces.
“Well, I’m paying thirty quid for full body so it bloody well better be!”
“So gross.”
***
WE DRIVE BACK IN SILENCE. I can tell by my little sister’s face that she totally wants to know the intimate details of my wax but is also too repulsed to ask. It’s kind of like watching the scary scene of a horror movie. You might cover your eyes but you peep between your fingers as you totally want to know what’s going on.
Honestly though, I don’t want to traumatise her or relive the ordeal. I’m not sure what was worse. The fact that she waxed bits that I didn’t even think had any hair (I mean, why bother with the barely visible downy hair on my chest? I’m only going to get heat bumps there now), or that she found a (small, thank you very much) blackhead on my back which she decided not to ignore and instead pointed out to me by mumbling “disgusting” as she squeezed. Come on now, customer service much? Oh, and then there was the bit when she said “ithni hairy,” while aggressively swiping the strip of cloth from my legs and examining the spoils. Of course I’d be so hairy. Why would I remove my hair ahead of getting it professionally removed?
Actually, I know the worst part. The claim of a full body wax was false advertising. She didn’t go anywhere near the nether region, which means it’s going to be yet another slap-dash swipe with a Bic razor. So really, it was 40 minutes wasted. The only reason I booked there in the first place is so they’d do a proper job. Had I known that the beautician thinks a Brazilian is someone’s ethnicity, I wouldn’t have bothered. I could have skipped the whole trauma, as neither my stomach or back is that hairy to warrant the unspeakable torture I was put through.
“So... did it hurt?” asks little sis, finally breaking the silence.
“Like a bitch,” I say. “Like... a... bitch.”
***
AS PREDICTED, THE BACK of my shoulders are covered in red raw bumps. Bloody beauticians. They’re like dentists. Total butchers but you kind of need them.
As I change into my pyjamas I feel hot and uncomfortable so I swap my faux silk two piece for a cotton t-shirt and cropped trousers.
During my nightly check-in with M an interloper interrupts our text exchange.
It’s Sophia. About time.
So there’s no easy way of telling you this and I know it’s going to upset you, but I won’t be able to come to your mehendi party. Before you send an angry knee-jerk message I want you to know why. Since Imran’s been born, I’ve felt different. Funny but not in a ha ha way. My head feels heavy, I’m not sleeping, and basically, I don’t enjoy doing anything. It’s something I’ve been trying to shake off and put down to a lack of sleep, but it’s been like this for a year. The health visitor thinks I might have post-natal depression. I really, really didn’t want to burden you with this so close to your wedding and I’m sorry I’m having to send this in a text message. It’s not how I would have liked but I just want you to understand why I’ve been so crap at keeping in touch and doing things.
I respond straight away: I’m so sorry to hear this. Why didn’t you tell me?
She replies: Because you never asked.