Reading the Folds

They’re like snowflakes. They’re like fingerprints. They’re like palms. Every vulva is unique, and if you know how to read them like I can, you can tell a person their future or predict the collapse of society as we know it.

My second-to-last appointment, before the one that changed everything, had good fortune coming her way. Another baby—the woman had two already, but her folds showed three. Same husband, love lines longer than I had seen in months. A career change was coming, or rather, a career renewal. The woman had been an esthetician, actually, and asked if I had gone to the beauty school nearby. Nope, I said, punctuating the answer with a long rip. Left thigh, clear. Onto the butthole I went, applying the warm goo and listening as the woman lamented her previous career, staring at the ceiling as if she were on a chaise lounge talking to a psychotherapist and not a massage table talking to a gash-waxer.

Tomato, tomato, when you really thought about it.

I did not tell the woman that her future looked bright. She was a first-timer, and first-timers weren’t ready to hear their fortunes. Neither were second-timers, third-timers, or fourth-timers. I learned this the hard way in New Jersey. Only three of my regulars knew about my special abilities, and two of them thought I was joking. As if I would joke about something like this.

Of course, if anyone asked if I could read their futures by way of their cooter folds, I would tell the truth. But no one ever asked.

After the appointment, I sat on the back stoop, eating a Crunchwrap Supreme and scrolling my phone, occasionally itching a bump on my chin with my clear-and-purple acrylic pointer finger nail. Instagram was nothing more than a way to pass the time, like how my ex-husband went fishing.

My catch of the day that morning? Reels, ironically. Reels of women selling hair extensions in Utah, of women selling rocks in China, of women giving testimonials after attending a sales coaching seminar. Good for them. I wanted to be just like those women. I just needed time to let the old bank account grow; at least, that’s what the handheld mirror said would happen. Nan, the salon owner, would eventually get tired of living three hours away from her grandkids. Meanwhile, manscaping the nether would become trendy and the right man would make an appointment, sweep me off my feet, and give me the cash to take over the shop.

(And before you ask, no. There are no insights to be gleaned from scrotum or penile veins. They’ve got nothing to say. Are you surprised?)

The tinkle of the bell snapped me out of my decay-by-Instagram and brought me back into the present. My 2:00 Brazilian. I don’t typically remember faces—top halves are not my specialty. I’m shocked I can remember the green eyes (like those healthy tortillas), pale skin (like those less healthy tortillas), blonde hair (corn). Maybe I remember her because she looked like an old doll I had, but above the folds only.

Below? She was real—real scary.

As I ripped the hairs out of her crotch, her vulva basically screamed at me.

Death.

Death.

Death.

Destruction to apocalyptic levels.

Disease. Famine. Warfare. The end of us all.

Our conversation had been pleasantly forgettable up until I saw Wall-E-level devastation in her taint. I interrupted her lament on the price of yoga studio memberships with a big, dramatic gasp.

“What is it?” she asked, her head popping up. She propped herself on her elbows and tried to get a good look down-below. “Is it a disease? Are the hairs too long?”

“No!” I shouted, trying to sound reassuring. I didn’t need to raise my voice, but the prophecy foretold by this pussy knocked me off my feet. “Uh. What do you think about the international situation?”

I didn’t mean to ask her. I knew what was inappropriate conversation and not in the workplace; I had learned it the hard way in New Jersey. But clearly this lady knew something I didn’t, only if she knew it in her punani. Plus, if you think about it…she was the one who brought it up first.

“What?” she asked.

“Nuclear weapons. Think it’s going to be the end of us all?”

My gloved hand was still holding a popsicle stick of hot wax, so I covered up my yapper with my wrist. What was I doing? If I could just keep quiet for two more swipes, I could let this customer go and figure out my next steps…

“I haven’t been keeping up with it,” she said. “I’m a marine biologist. You know what’s going to get us all? Climate change. Ugh!” She released her elbows and let her head fall on the back of the massage chair, waiting for the next rip.

As the baby hairs on my wrist tickled my canines and my lips (up top), I asked myself whether it was worth it to hold my tongue. Who was going to need a wax after the apocalypse? The end of the world was coming, and I’d be a fool to waste it slathering thighs with warm goo.

I took life into my own hands that day. I quit as soon as our coochie Nostradamus waddled out of the shop. The little money I had went to a class in living off the grid. Then, I got to work.

My trailer runs on solar power and my sauce is made entirely from the tomatoes in my backyard garden. Basil, too. I still have balsamic from two years ago and haven’t gotten sick of vegan caprese salads in four months. I think I’ll be able to last until that harbinger of a vulva’s prophecy has passed over my little slice of heaven in Chalfont.

Let this be known—I told you so. And she told you so, too.