She was wearing a chiffon blue-green dress that flows past her knees, crystal-studded white sandals on her feet. Her long hair was swept up into a neat bun, revealing a pair of elegant pearl earrings on her earlobes. Clutching a white Dior handbag in between her right arm and chest, Mrs. E leaned over to my mom and started talking animatedly about her last care group activities.
All around us people were loitering around, eating the rolled cakes and drinking tea prepared at the foyer as they mingled with each other like they always do after church service. I smiled politely at Mrs. E’s aging mother standing behind her as Mrs. E flailed her arms around describing the nasi briyani Jennifer, no, Marissa, no she thinks it’s Jennifer afterall, prepared for the care group. My mom was asking her about the care group meetings when a couple of middle-aged women walked past and Mrs. E waved them over to introduce them to us.
Then I saw it. A clump of hair poking out of her half-sleeve. I blinked and she went back to clutching her handbag close to her body. I shook my head slightly; the thought of a well-dressed, educated lady like Mrs. E to even consider not shaving her armpits was unfathomable. I tried to remember when the last time I changed my pair of contact lenses was.
One of the women asked for a pen to jot down Jennifer’s home address. Mrs. E released her clasp on her handbag to grope for a pen she kept inside.
She had the longest armpit hair I have ever seen on a grown woman. It was so wildly unkept it reminded me of furballs coughed up by kittens. Or random haystacks rolling through windy deserts.
Or vulgar pictures of certain HK actresses’ intimate parts taken by certain Canadian-born HK actor on gutterpost
One gets the point. It was nasty.
For the rest of the conversation that went from nasi briyani recipes to college applications, it took all my concentration to tear my eyes away from her armpits. It was like an optical illusion test – the second you figure out the picture within the picture, it’s the only thing you can see from then on.
Mrs. E mentioned my name; I looked up a little too quickly, momentarily startled. She was smiling at me expectantly; I smiled back uncertainly, a little embarrassed at being caught red-handed (for not paying attention to the conversation, not for staring at her armpits as one would at a trainwreck). My mom placed her arms around my shoulders and answered for me politely, steering the conversation away from me.
Finally the group of women broke up and left with their husbands and kids; my mom and I started walking over to our car. I waited until Mrs. E and her family was way out of earshot before I opened my mouth to tell my mom what happened.
But my mom beat me to it.
Did you see the hairy armpits?!?
