I call her “the torturer” to her face, as do most of her clients, but that never elicits anything other than a broad smile and a smug nod.
She’s diminutive, has delicate features and a soft nature, yet the pain she inflicts easily brings tears to the eyes of her many clients.
Three years after being a regular customer of hers, I still wriggle and scream out loud, much to her annoyance because she thinks I should be immune to the pain by now. She has no qualms about telling me that I’m her worst client and I have no qualms about swearing at her in the kind of vulgar Hindi that would have my mother rubbing bird’s-eye chillies in my mouth.
She’s Ishani Singh, my beauty therapist, and, more importantly, the woman who threads my eyebrows. Lucky (or should that be unlucky) for me, she’s married to one of my cousins so she can’t easily get rid of me, despite our main issue: she inflicts bone-chilling pain to which I have an obvious aversion.
Threading is an ancient hair-removal method that originated in India and parts of the Middle East and is now popular in Western countries. I opted for threading because my sensitive facial skin didn’t react well to wax and I found threading to be neater than waxing.
“Oh grow up already … why aren’t you used to this by now?” Ishani asks with an irritable tone in her voice.
“Um, because I’m human and, unlike your other clients, I still have feeling in my face,” I say equally irritably.
“Maybe you should have a baby. Women who have had kids know what real pain is about and they don’t give me half the hassles you do,” she says.
“I can cope with pain. I just choose not to cope with it because I shouldn’t have to. You should figure out a way to do this so that it’s less painful,” I say as my anger rises.
“How am I going to make this less painful? All I’m using is a cotton thread!” Ishani shouts.
Three of her four dogs start barking at the window of her therapy room. “What are your unruly mutts going on about now?” I ask.
“They’re telling you to stop making such a racket because they’re trying to sleep,” she says.
I steel myself angrily, determined not to let her get the better of me. “Come on, Sukasha, you can do it. Just think warm, fuzzy thoughts,” I tell myself.
With the sound of the cotton thread slicing across my delicate skin I sometimes regret starting this ridiculous grooming process. Ishani and my sister Sandy (a long-time client of hers) had always made fun of my untidy eyebrows and my general unkemptness, but I didn’t care. Then, for inexplicable reasons, I started caring. Because Ishani is very good at what she does, the compliments I received after my first few sessions seemed to outweigh the pain and so I quickly became a regular.
Men reading this column are probably wondering how a cotton thread being used to extract offending follicles can possibly be painful. They’re probably rolling their eyes back into their heads and thinking this is yet more proof that the female of the species is weaker than the male. Well, they don’t know that about 13 years ago I had the distinct displeasure of being on the receiving end of a minibus taxi trying to speed through a red light while I was crossing the street. The multiple pelvic fractures I sustained meant I couldn’t walk for about six months. I was in more pain than most gunshot victims. So, I’m not a wuss. But, if you think I’m splitting hairs, try it for yourself — the threading, of course, not getting run over by a taxi. Find a beauty therapist au fait with threading and thread your eyebrows and/or your moustache and then be honest about the pain we women endure in our ridiculous quest to be as unnaturally hairless as possible.
The serene scent of sandalwood agarbathi (incense sticks) does little to calm me down in Ishani’s therapy room.
The tremendous speed at which she works makes me thankful that she’s not some clumsy novice, but my sometimes puerile stubbornness ensures that I’m not about to let her know this.
Ishani warns me that she’s done with my eyebrows and is going to move down to my upper lip where, if it’s possible, it hurts even more.
I inhale deeply and wonder how long I can hold my breath while she works around my mouth. Her Staffie, Smidge, who has fallen asleep in the room, farts and I feel like I’m losing consciousness. I close my eyes tightly as she says: “I hope I haven’t made the wax for your legs too hot.”