No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

Tips In: $120

Tips Out: $25

            "My dreams are all about shaving.” This unsolicited pronouncement is met with glares as the rest of the dancers fix up their hair and get dressed. What? Everyone else is not preoccupied with shaving? Maybe they are all naturally smooth and hairless, but for me, it feels like my whole world is beginning to revolve around shaving. And I’m not kidding; it’s creeping into my dreams. Only slightly worse than reality, it grows as fast as I shave it, and I can’t keep up.

I guess it’s the equivalent of running away from a monster as your legs begin to feel like lead weights. In my waking life, I’m a hairy girl. Hairier than average I think. I have to shave everything before a shift. I squat and bend over in front of my husband and he shaves whatever stray hairs I miss. He thinks it looks fantastic, but I growl if he comments on it. On days I won’t be dancing, it itches as it starts to grow back in. Take my word for it; do not try this at home. It is miserable, and I hate it.

           
I guess this isn’t a good time to start conversation. I can sense any more comments from me will continue to hit the floor like bricks, so I shut up and get myself dressed. The dressing room is hot and crowded, and Pandora isn’t here so there is no place to put my bag. Both my bag and I are constantly in the way.  Getting herself ready, Delilah makes a plea to the rest of us,

            “Does anyone have any really light face powder?” Eager to be the one to help, I hand her my compact. She opens it up and examines it briefly before grimacing and handing it back to me.

            “You shouldn’t buy such cheap make up. This stuff is full of preservatives. If you bought a better brand like Lancôme you wouldn’t have those wrinkles around your eyes.” 

Thank you very much, you nineteen-year old bitch.

I stuff my bag under the counter as far as I can and go pay for my own drink until it’s time to get on stage.

I didn’t start out in a bad mood. Usually I am thrilled to get in here. I like having a drink to loosen up, and I love the dancing, but tonight, especially after that thoughtful comment from the queen of sensitivity, I feel like an outsider. I'm closing in on twice the age of most of these girls, and I am feeling every minute of it. I am so tired, my legs are covered with bruises from the hard floor of the stage, and my knees hurt so badly that I can barely walk after working two shifts, two days in a row.  Much more of this and I really will need a cane. I’m drinking more than I'm used to, and perhaps it is only the power of suggestion, but the lines around my eyes do seem especially prominent in the mirror tonight. 

The good thing is that there really isn’t time to ruminate or sulk. It’ll be my turn to dance again soon and with this low lighting they can’t see the lines or the bruises. Marcus puts on Beast of Burden just for me and I pull myself together and have some fun on stage.  I’m taking bills and swinging around the poles and when I catch myself in one of the big wall mirrors, I can hardly believe that dancer is me. I may not be 19, but I’m trim and tight and I look great. I stand up straight and tall for a few seconds. I don’t want anyone to notice me admiring myself in the mirror, but I stall by running my hands down my sides as I view my image from far away. I’m impressed and it takes my mind off feeling ugly and insecure. I move like a real stripper. 

For a few seconds when I catch a glimpse of myself on stage, I feel really, truly great. I am as good as I want to be, and it doesn’t matter whether I’m underfoot or if anybody likes me or how behind I am on laundry and shopping or whether I remembered to sign a permission slip or help with math homework or whether someone at work has it in for me or if its all in my head. There I am, just me, all by myself on stage. I’m tired and sore as hell, but if I can’t be in bed asleep, this stage is not the worst place in the world to be tonight.