Wax, Hairs, and Lies

It was my birthday. I was already running late to teach a yoga class.
I glanced in the mirror and saw a few rogue chin hairs that I swear were not there the day before.
The betrayal.

Normally, I melt my wax on a candle warmer — slow and steady.
But there was no time for ritual. The box said I could microwave it.
LIES.

I pulled it out, and the plastic container was already melting.
As I tried to transfer it onto a paper plate, the whole thing exploded —
hotwax everywhere.

It took me days to figure out how to get it off the floor, and my shoe, and my hair (not the one I wanted to get rid of).
I taught class anyway. Still fuzzy. Still flustered. With a whole new definition of “sticky mat.”