Small Talk and Verbal Niceties, Please!

Loyola Red Line Stop, 2.30pm:

I was waiting for the #155 bus that would take me to Devon Street and wildly disbelieving the temperature since I was shivering to no end even though I have on wellies and my warmest down jacket. I shifted from leg to leg, and blew hot air onto my gloved hands while cursing the subzero temperature.

Suddenly, a Desi lady donning a black pea coat and head scarf with protruding henna-ed hair stood opposite me and smiled, looking like she wanted to make small talk. Having mastered the art of small talk, and kononnya very confident among strangers, I decided to relieve her of the torture and made the first step.

"It's very cold today, huh?".
"Yess. Werrry coll".

I made a show of trembling and stuffing my hands deeper into my down jacket pocket and violently shaking my legs to ease the numbness that was creeping up my toes. That was done for fully functional reasons as well as aesthetical (to further demonstrate my question-statement).

"So are you waiting (pronounced waiding) for the 151?".
"I'm an ESL student".

Aaah, her strong Indian/Pakistani accent betrayed her, and I could tell that, like me, she's not from around even before she misunderstood my question. To not embarrass her, I ignored her reply and asked again.

"Oh, yes, I'm going to Devon".

So we stood there for another 5 minutes, while I ceaselessly tried to forget the cold by rubbing my hands that was under my pockets, against my jeans.

The lady looks at me and after a long while exclaims, "You should realllly wear a long coatteh. I know children don't like to wear long coatt but you should really try it!".

I gave her a dirty look, just as the #155 pulled up to the bus stop, and just as she turned away.

*Aduh* Strike one for me.

Super Clips Salon, Devon St., 3.10pm:

I was lying on my back, stinging from the underarm waxing I just received and throat still dry from laughing since I am one sadly ticklish girl. Shahanaz, my waxer, was attempting to wax my legs then. She was a warm middle-aged woman who made me feel very much at ease and in that short amount of time we were already talking about my winter break plans, his son eating unhealthy junk food like pizza and fries (She'd be ghastly horrified if she heard about my diet during finals week) and our Thanksgiving sale catches.

"Aaah, no wonder those glamorous career women and rich mak Datins and Puan Seris all have a specific hairstylist from a specific shop; these sessions are heart-to-heart sessions as well", so I thought to myself. I vowed that instant that I was gonna quickly climb the ladder at wherever I'm working at and get a good pay so that I could afford monthly trips to the salon to receive this kind of pampering and indulgence.

Intermittently interrupting my thoughts were the "oohs" and "ouches" coming from my mouth every time she did her thang. *Sigh* A fantastic time in sunny Florida is all I think about to justify the pain I'm putting myself through. Since our conversation was coming to a lull, I felt the necessity for another session of small talk.

"This is only my second time waxing. People tell me that the more I do the more the hair doesn't grow, right?".
"No. The more you do, the more it DOESN'T grow".

I smiled to myself, wondering why these Desis can't seem to hear very well.

"Hehe, I'm quite hairy, huh?".

That was totally an attempt to continue the small talk, since I vehemently believe I'm not as hairy as Hairy Harry (pun intended) nor do I have man-like curling hair on my legs. Besides, the last time I tried that line on my waxer also on Devon, but at a different shop, she totally disagreed (exactly the reaction I was expecting).

But no. "Yessh. I can see that".

Sheesh, this woman must have standards of her own. Rather skewed standards though, since I'm sure, at the risk of sounding racist here, that Desis are very hirsute people, even the women. Isn't that why there are so many waxing salons in Devon, anyways??

Strike two.

After that blow to my ego, I kept myself busy by reading "The Paris Review Book of People with Problems" book I brought with me. That was, until she told me to turn around and lie on my stomach.


I obeyed her, and received another slap to thy self-esteem.

"Boyyy. Yourrr legs at the back even hairrrierr".

Strike three.

WTF. She must be jesting with me. There is no way I am hairier than she is. I don't think my hairiness comes close to any of the Pakistani/Indian people I've met. In fact, I know of a friend who waxes everything from her upper lip, to her arms to her tummy and legs. Screw the lady.

But she didn't give up.

"You want me to do your arrms as well? I give you 10 dollars, jii? Usuallly 15 dollars".

Strike four (Or I'm out, by now?)

#X55 Eastbound bus, en route to 54th and Hyde Park Blvd., 7.02pm:

I was sitting at the back of the bus, next to the window and thanking my lucky stars that the bus arrived just as I did at the Garfield Red Line stop that I didn't have to freeze my ass off in the cold. I was busy wiping the foggy window and peering outside when I caught a Black man looking at me.

"Whaadddupp, beautiful?"

Ah! Blissful words, his. Any given day I would have just ignored the comment and would have averted my gaze. But my self-esteem has been tempered with the whole day. I returned his glance and smiled widely. It took much self-restraint not to hug him and tell him he made a girl's day.