Chapter One
. . .
Face down. Hairy ass up.
“Okay, so you packed everything you own.”
My sister and I are standing in front of my suitcase, staring down at it, our heads slanted right.
She’s right; I packed too much. But I wasn’t sure what I’d need.
I still can’t believe I agreed to a week of yoga and finding myself. It’s way outside of my comfort zone, but that was the point. Still, I had no idea if the day would call for leggings or a kaftan.
Not that I have either.
My brows furrow. “Everything I own is navy.”
“And striped.”
“Why’d I bring not one, but two blazers?”
“Let’s pretend it’s because you like to be thorough, and not because you clearly have stock in Ann Taylor.”
Maybe it’s the bright Malibu sunlight making everything look wrong. Or maybe it’s that the life I packed doesn’t fit me anymore, and the sun’s just making that point glaringly obvious. I turn to face my sister.
“Am I uptight? Have I become our mother?”
“Blasphemy,” she rushes out, but I cut in.
“I came to a retreat named Bliss Babes. In fucking Malibu, with, with…” I wave a hand in front of my suitcase. “I don’t want to be the girl on the beach in a blazer. That’s not blissful. It’s hot…in the bad way.”
Moon’s eyes lock on mine as she chuckles. “You’re not uptight. I mean, you were a little, but who wouldn’t be, married to a guy who makes everyone call him by his full name? Trust me, you are not our mother.”
I blow out a harsh enough breath that it makes my lips flap. “Regardless. There’s only one answer. I have to burn it all and start fresh.”
“Or…” To accent her point, she leans over my suitcase and closes the top. “We zip it up and go shopping. I’m free the rest of the afternoon since it’s just arrivals.”
Her hip bumps mine before she throws an arm over my shoulder. “How about we replace the stripes with polka dots? And ban everything navy. It’s time you got a little whimsy back. A whole new Margot.”
I’m nodding along because hell yeah. New era, new me.
“I’m in. But shopping and dinner. Because tonight, I’m gonna need a glass of wine, a call with my niece, and some shit-talking with my sister before I start the journey of becoming the best version of myself.”
“You’re already the best version,” Moon says with a smile.
She’s right. Especially now that I got rid of the piece of shit smudging my shine.
Four hours later and too many bags to count, I’m back in my room. This time with raised brows that feel permanently locked in place, mainly out of awe over my own audacity.
“What was I thinking?” I whisper to myself.
Apparently, whimsy meant buying a butter-yellow polka-dot bikini.
All I know is it’s the kind of bathing suit that proves whether or not you’re pro Brazilian wax.
I am, in fact, not. Something I tried to explain to my sister as she pushed the idea like a high-level coke dealer. I left the store afraid for my life and simultaneously excited for an experience she’d convinced me I needed.
But now, alone in my room, my decisions are beginning to haunt me.
See, I’m a full-bush kind of gal. I live on the East Coast for the love of god. My vagina’s made for cold weather. Our clits require insulation. And this bikini is cut for a Kardashian. I’ll need a full taper fade for my labia.
But that’s not even my biggest problem because apparently, now that I’m forty, that means there’s hair on my ass.
And not the peach fuzz kind. Actual hair.
It’s also surprisingly long.
A slight breeze can make the atrocity tickle.
Something I just discovered applying self-tanner. I bent over, gave a spray to rub in, and felt it say hi. The fact that I’m applying tanner on my ass is already ridiculous enough. But unlike the residents of Malibu, my ass has never seen the sun. Ever.
It stays inside my pants. Where it belongs. I’m a woman who owns full-back underwear.
And I love them.
Alas, that ideology has now brought me here to my current problem—can I wear a thong bikini with carpet ass?
Like, is it armpit hair at Lilith Fair? Or am I just a fucking Sasquatch with a future ad for L’Oréal billowing in the breeze as I walk?
On the upside, I suppose I should be filled with gratitude knowing that if I ever journey through thinning hair on top, I can grab it from the bottom.
I groan, staring at my ass in the mirror as I imagine walking out to the beach tomorrow morning to shocked faces and stares.
“Is that a shadow? Is there enough back there to make a shadow? Jesus.”
There’s not. I know that, but…
I shake my head. Nope. I can’t do this. Even I’m being dramatic. Or am I? I squint, trying to force my eyes to focus more sharply.
I should’ve bought some Nair. Because I only have one razor, and from the feel of it, I’m going to need like ten.
My eyes grow wide as I suddenly think about razor burn.
“Good god,” I rush out, turning away from the sight of my fuzzy peach, and start toward my suitcase to grab the other suit I brought with me. A much more sensible, albeit navy-striped, one-piece.
But I don’t get far because it’s like Moon can sense my mutiny. My cell rings.
I swipe my phone off the bed. “Perfect timing, Houston—”
She cuts me off. “Houston? Like Whitney? What are you talking about?”
“No. You know, because of the moon landing… ‘Houston, we have a problem.’” I chuckle. “But not with that moon, with mine.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m Moon. Why are we having trouble?”
I rub my forehead. “Jesus Christ. Not you, Moon. Me. My moon.”
“Margot…” she says with force. “I am your Moon? Did you fall and hit your head? I’m so confused.”
I’m smiling as I put myself in front of the mirror again. I love her, but she’s never been good at sarcasm. Something that’s literally the air I breathe.
“I’m saying there’s a problem with my ass—”
“Oh.”
“So moon as a metaphor.”
She sighs. “Margot, what did I tell you at the store? You’re hot. You just need to believe it. Confidence is the sexiest thing a woman wears. Put the suit on and rock it.”
I roll my eyes, not at her, but at the ridiculousness of this situation. This conversation is insane. We’ve gone from moon landings to mistaken identity to self-esteem. And now we’re about to venture into hairy asses and the pitfalls of beauty standards.
“I don’t have low self-esteem,” I say, mixed with a laugh. “I like my body just fine. I already feel super confident. It’s just—”
She cuts me off.
“That being outside your comfort zone feels scary? Yeah, it’s supposed to. Comfort zoning your life left you miserable. So why repeat the process? This is more than a bikini, Margot…this is you taking yourself back.”
Oh my god. I’m in self-help hell.
“Moon,” I rush out. “This is less serious than a therapy session. I appreciate the hang-in-there, kitten-poster sentiment, but my problem isn’t me. It’s my actual kitty and its friend, ass hair.”
I know she’s not hearing me because she answers with, “Stop deflecting. You’re looking for an escape from trying on a version of yourself that feels scary.”
My head falls back as I look at the ceiling. “Or the idea of being some hairy-ass girl on the beach is fucking embarrassing.”
There’s a sudden beat of silence before she says, “Wait, what?” followed by a giggle of recognition. Now she hears me. “Ohhhh,” she breathes out. “Got it. You know what? Who cares. Body hair is natural.”
“No. I was born in the eighties. I’m too traumatized by Cosmopolitan magazine for that kind of self-acceptance.”
She laughs. “Well, as the saying goes, ‘your feelings are valid.’ Want me to send up some wax strips or some hair removal cream? I have both.”
The embarrassed smile grows on my face as I turn toward a window next to the mirror, staring out as I speak, the sunset capturing my attention.
“You’re a lifesaver. Thank you. Oh, PS, why’d you call?”
My fingers begin playing with the lock on the window.
“Just making sure you’re all good before I call it a night.”
“Roger that. All good now. Love you.”
“Love you. Breakfast at the pool tomorrow.”
“My ass wouldn’t miss it, literally.”
We hang up, but I stand in place for a moment, a half smile on my face, not really staring at anything but still looking out the window, when the sound of a deep laugh nabs my attention.
Two men are standing with their backs to me by what looks like an outdoor shower on the side of the house. They’re laughing as one pushes the other’s shoulder.
I lift my chin unashamedly, trying to get a better look. There are so many trees by the window that there’s no way they can see me.
Plus, they’re dressed as lifeguards; it’s like law that I stare. Who doesn’t like to stare at hot lifeguards?
They’re wearing white T-shirts with the signature red cross and red board shorts.
Hello, every fantasy I had when I was sick at home with chickenpox and watched reruns of Baywatch.
Plus, I can do that now. I can stare to my heart’s content.
Stare. Stare. Stare.
And apparently, as a reward for my new independence, the universe decides to give me a congratulatory gift. Because one of the guys drags his shirt over his head with one hand.
“Ooh,” I whisper, only slightly pervy, as I step even closer to the window.
God, I love when men do slutty things. Jeffrey never did anything slutty except fuck other people. But this drag motion is the kind of slutty I stand behind. Sadly, I’ve only ever seen it on TV.
That sounds as unbelievable in my head as it does in reality. But it’s my truth.
It’s been a lifetime of men who think stock indexes make them hot. I’ve been robbed of abs but fed securities. I’m rich, just not rich in life.
I’m like some kind of villager from an ancient civilization that lived sans modern society, left to discover only bits and pieces from discarded remnants of magazines that wash ashore.
David Attenborough could voice my life story.
In a world of bare-ass bikinis and slutty shirt removals, Margot, our repressed puritanical, is enjoying her first moments of freedom. Let’s watch as she ogles the wildlife.