Singapore’s founding father, Lee Kwan Yew, says that the country’s success is because of air-conditioning, and he’s absolutely correct. This is acceptable to her, because there is no other fathomable reason that someone should be this gross in a country that owes it very success to air-conditioning. “I’m sweaty,” I say with a thin smile, “because I’m too fat for this weather, and I’m not used to the humidity.” I blink, and I’m back in real life, leaning back in a chair with a heavily made-up face looming over me, waiting for me to answer. As soon as the scream escapes her lips, she immediately shuts up because the sweat is getting into her mouth. She wails, doing her best melting-Wicked-Witch impression, as if her very soul evaporating from the earth. For a second, time slows down and I watch a vast ocean of perspiration drench her to the bone. As it hits the crown of her head, the contact-splash is devastatingly, magnificently loud. Sweat that I’ve wrung out from my workout bag, my yoga mat, and the dank insoles of my sneakers. Sweat that I’ve been scraping off my skin, squeezing out of my clothes, steaming out of my towels. With my free hand, I pull the cord, and the holding tank flies open above us. I feel her gaze fixed on the glass, and the cleansing promise of the water within. Reaching over to the tray of tweezers and spatulas, I drink greedily from a sparkling glass of ice-cold water, the condensation already forming a luxurious pool in the tray. I straighten up and make a show of wiping my forehead with the back of my hand – this is tough work – flicking the sweaty beads at her. I can tell she’s about to give up and go limp, like a dying fish. “What did you say about me when I came in?” “The sweating will continue until morale improves,” I say. Next to me, in neat rows on a steel tray, her eyebrow-trimming tools twinkle under the light. The words otter’s pocket flash briefly in front of my eyes as I lean over and turn up the thermostat. The cheap vinyl upholstery, soaked in all three flavors of fear, squeaks in protest. I know she’s sorry, not for what she said, but because she didn’t anticipate the consequences. “Mmf-srrrrrh!” she shouts into the gag, eyes bulging. Her mouth is stuffed with rags, but I can hear her straining to speak. Like a fetid bead of lava, it oozes down my nose, and with an undignified plop, lands smack in the middle of the brow technician’s forehead. As the words float out of my mouth and hang in the wet air, a single drop of sweat sprouts from my hot, sticky scalp.
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