My First Bare Shave: Waxing Away Innocence in Paris
In Tante Gertrude’s salon, heart hammering like a drum. Geneviève arrives with Bertrand, that sharp-dressed tailor, almost bald. They want my measurements. For Dior. To make me a queen. Gertrude nods, eyes twinkling. ‘Undress, child,’ Geneviève says, voice like velvet. Here? Fully? My cheeks burn. But no backing out. This is the path to the…