Rebecca Smith - More Than Just Mum

It is an actual miracle. I refuse to let Miriam Wallace and her stupid rules take this away from me.

‘I expect to see all four pupils in after-school detention for the rest of the week,’ she says, raising her voice. ‘You too, Mrs Thompson.’

‘You’re putting me in after-school detention?’ I say weakly.

She’s gone too far now. She might think that I’m doing a crappy job but she can’t treat me like one of the kids. I will not be sent to after-school detention – it’s a complete violation of my rights.

Miriam nods. ‘I’ve been revising the rota and you are now down to cover after-school detention duty today, tomorrow and Wednesday.’ She pinpoints her laser focus onto me. ‘Is that going to be a problem? It is part of your temporary contract.’

Of course it’s a problem. And it’s completely unfair. She’s punishing me and there’s nothing that I can do about it if I want to keep my job. The job that she takes great pleasure in reminding me is only guaranteed until the end of the year. I’m putting my foot down over this. She’s pushed the wrong woman this time. Brace yourself, Miriam, and prepare to witness my wrath.

‘No problem at all, Ms Wallace,’ I trill brightly, through gritted teeth. ‘I shall be there.’

Miriam nods at me and with a last glower at Year Nine, Class C, storms back out of the door.

I stagger to my desk and sink back into the chair. I am not living my best life right now. Not in the slightest.

‘We told you that she never let us use the felt tips, miss.’ Vincent’s voice rings out loud and clear. ‘She thinks we’re too thick to be let loose on anything permanent.’

‘You and me both, Vincent,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘You and me both.’

There’s no questioning the facts. It is one hundred per cent there and I have one hundred per cent got to deal with this situation immediately. Part of me was hoping that it was a joke, but the more that I stare into the magnifying side of my mirror the more the evidence stares back at me.

Brandon Hopkins was correct, which must surely be the first time since I started teaching him that such an event has actually occurred. I would find this cause for celebration if it weren’t for the fact that on this particular occasion, I would be happy to prove him wrong.

But as he so accurately and loudly pointed out during period six on Wednesday afternoon, I have a lady-moustache.

And I am about to do something about it.

The instructions on the packet are pretty basic but the page of safety precautions goes on forever. I start to read, squinting to see the tiny words.

This product is suitable for upper lip, cheeks and chin.

Chin? Brandon Hopkins didn’t mention anything about me having a lady-beard, but I’d rather be safe than humiliated in front of Year Nine, Class C next week. Grabbing the mirror, I scrutinise the skin below my mouth, searching for errant hairs. Fortunately for me, the majority of my facial growth appears to be confined to the area between lips and nose; I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m pretty sure I didn’t buy enough product to deforest my entire face.

I keep reading.

This item is NOT SUITABLE for the rest of the face, the head, the ears, or around the anus, genitals or nipples.

What now? Why would anyone in his or her right mind want to put wax there ? What would be the purpose? Are there really people in the world who care about whether they have a hairless arse? And who would even know if they did have the odd hair or two in the vicinity of their rectal opening? I mean, I’ve never thought to check but now I’m wondering if I need to have a quick look.

Shuddering, I shove the instruction leaflet in the bin. It lost me at anus and I don’t care to read one more word. Not that I need instructions, anyway. The wax strips are laid out in front of me and it’s obvious what I need to do. I have two X chromosomes after all. The skills that I need to complete this task are inherent in my DNA. It’s genetic memory – I have inherited the knowledge that I need to remove my excessive and unwanted moustache from my mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before her, and – well, I’m not sure how long waxing your upper lip has been a thing, but it’s not as if candles are a new invention, so the craft probably goes back for many generations.

I pick up a strip and warm it between my hands before peeling off one side. Then I apply it to my skin, pressing it into place to make sure that it’s stuck down really firmly. And now it is the moment of reckoning. I’m quite looking forward to this bit. I’m not stupid – I’m aware that there may be a small degree of pain involved – but surely it won’t be worse than pulling off a plaster? And these things can often be quite satisfying, in their own way.

I take a deep breath and yank the wax away from my upper lip in one smooth movement.

‘Fuck it, that hurts!’

On the floor, Dogger gives me a baleful look. I ignore her and peer eagerly at the wax strip, keen to see how much hair I have managed to remove.

There is bugger all there. Not one single strand.

I am not feeling satisfied in the slightest.

I lean towards the mirror again, trying to ascertain the current status of my moustache, but the skin is tingling and slightly pink and I can’t tell if the hairs are still there. But it’s okay because this is my first go and sometimes it takes a while to get the knack of doing something technical like this. Otherwise, beauty technicians wouldn’t need to exist, would they? And I have loads more wax strips left. I’ll just keep going until I’ve got rid of them all.

The next fifteen minutes are not the best fifteen minutes of my life. On a scale from stubbing a toe to giving birth, I would say that the pain threshold hovers somewhere around the time I accidentally shaved off an entire strip of skin from my ankle to my knee. Both the bath and I looked like we’d been involved in a particularly gruesome episode of CSI: The Shires . At least this time there isn’t any blood.