Recently I made a new friend.
New friend, I learned by way of what we humans do, is a comedy writer.
My new playmate shrugged.
It’s how my brain works.
In typical Carla-fashion those 5 words got caught in my cranium.
I concluded three things.
- The key to humor is indeed in the unexpected.
- I find my world fucking hilarious because I leverage humor as tool to break tension.
- I’m more Sarah Silverman than Jim Gaffigan. I’m unable to tell a ‘clean’ tale.
As we’ve previously established I’m a woman who gets ideas in her head and cannot let them go.
During one of these stretches of time I came up with an idea.
It was a period of involuntary change. I could embrace this change. I should grow out my downstairs hair–as the Child & I jokingly called it—and get a Brazilian.
Even though no one was currently exploring my nether regions (TMI but you’ll have that) it would be like a secret in my pants.
And, at 3a on zero sleep, a secret in the pants seemed like quite the brilliant concept.
Flash forward to appointment made and Brazilian ‘executed.’
I was a quarter of a century older than my aesthetician, yet was capable of making conversation while I clumsily moved through positions required for her to complete the task at hand.
I was told there would be no math involved,yet was able to think on my (metaphorical) feet, state my desires (not bald. leave me stuff.) and answer WaxerGirl’s shape-specific queries (square? teardrop? rectangle?).
It’s not an understatement to say I strutted out of the aptly named, Pretty Kitty.
I possessed a secret hidden under my sartorial selections. I was hip and new and, like my tattoos, it was all for me.
All for me save for the fact, being the brazen woman I am, I felt called to display for my #LadyPosse what I’d done.
I flashed my newly fashioned landing strip (rectangle! rectangle!) and was met with uncomfortable silence.
Dead air followed immediately, because they are nothing if not my people, laughter.
Well, one giggled nodding slowly as she spoke. It IS really long.
It appears you’ve gotten the entire runway, another stated struggling to maintain a serious face.
A quick glance at my own damn downstairs proved them correct.
In my excitement not only had I not bothered to examine WaxerGirl’s stylings—-my Pretty Kitty adventure hadn’t provided me the 2018 hairdo of my dreams.
I’d fantasized about a lovely landing strip and ended up with the runway at O’Hare.
My friends reassured me my “problem” could be rectified. They reminded me I could request the pubic square of my dreams next time.
It was in that moment I decided whether by accident or divine intervention I’d been given the Brazilian befitting me.
A grandma Brazilian
I’d unintentionally requested the Grandma of Downstairs Hair. The old fogy way of arranging my first floor follicles.
I’m neither young nor hip. I’m not fresh nor am I “new.”
As I launch my second act I am, indeed, the living embodiment of a Grazilian.
Gamely trying new things while concurrently aware too much time has passed for me to fool myself into thinking I’m something I no longer am.
I received everything I never knew I always wanted. I got a Grazilian.
And I was damned if I wasn’t going to commit to and own it.