Bald Is Beautiful
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.
– Eleanor Roosevelt
Tips In: $120
Tips Out: $25
“My dreams are all about
shaving.” This unsolicited pronouncement is met with glares as the rest of the
dancers fix up their hair and get dressed. What? Everyone else is not
preoccupied with shaving? Maybe they are all naturally smooth and hairless, but
for me, it feels like my whole world is beginning to revolve around shaving.
And I’m not kidding; it’s creeping into my dreams. Only slightly worse than
reality, it grows as fast as I shave it, and I can’t keep up.
I guess it’s the equivalent of
running away from a monster as your legs begin to feel like lead weights. In my
waking life, I’m a hairy girl. Hairier than average I think. I have to shave
everything before a shift. I squat and bend over in front of my husband and he
shaves whatever stray hairs I miss. He thinks it looks fantastic, but I growl
if he comments on it. On days I won’t be dancing, it itches as it starts to
grow back in. Take my word for it; do not try this at home. It is miserable,
and I hate it.
I guess this isn’t a good time to
start conversation. I can sense any more comments from me will continue to hit
the floor like bricks, so I shut up and get myself dressed. The dressing room
is hot and crowded, and Pandora isn’t here so there is no place to put my bag.
Both my bag and I are constantly in the way.
Getting herself ready, Delilah makes a plea to the rest of us,
“Does anyone have any really
light face powder?” Eager to be the one to help, I hand her my compact. She
opens it up and examines it briefly before grimacing and handing it back to me.
“You shouldn’t buy such cheap
make up. This stuff is full of preservatives. If you bought a better brand like
Lancôme you wouldn’t have those wrinkles around your eyes.”
Thank you very much, you
nineteen-year old bitch.
I stuff my bag under the counter
as far as I can and go pay for my own drink until it’s time to get on stage.
I didn’t start out in a bad mood.
Usually I am thrilled to get in here. I like having a drink to loosen up, and I
love the dancing, but tonight, especially after that thoughtful comment from
the queen of sensitivity, I feel like an outsider. I'm closing in on twice the
age of most of these girls, and I am feeling every minute of it. I am so tired,
my legs are covered with bruises from the hard floor of the stage, and my knees
hurt so badly that I can barely walk after working two shifts, two days in a
row. Much more of this and I really will
need a cane. I’m drinking more than I'm used to, and perhaps it is only the
power of suggestion, but the lines around my eyes do seem especially prominent
in the mirror tonight.
The good thing is that there really
isn’t time to ruminate or sulk. It’ll be my turn to dance again soon and with
this low lighting they can’t see the lines or the bruises. Marcus puts on Beast
of Burden just for me and I pull myself together and have some fun on stage. I’m taking bills and swinging around the
poles and when I catch myself in one of the big wall mirrors, I can hardly
believe that dancer is me. I may not be 19, but I’m trim and tight and I look
great. I stand up straight and tall for a few seconds. I don’t want anyone to notice
me admiring myself in the mirror, but I stall by running my hands down my sides
as I view my image from far away. I’m impressed and it takes my mind off
feeling ugly and insecure. I move like a real stripper.
For a few seconds when I catch a
glimpse of myself on stage, I feel really, truly great. I am as good as I want
to be, and it doesn’t matter whether I’m underfoot or if anybody likes me or
how behind I am on laundry and shopping or whether I remembered to sign a
permission slip or help with math homework or whether someone at work has it in
for me or if its all in my head. There I am, just me, all by myself on stage.
I’m tired and sore as hell, but if I can’t be in bed asleep, this stage is not
the worst place in the world to be tonight.