Free Reality Jane by Shannon Nering

fair.” Lydia patted my now splotchy, neon-red, bikini line. “This machine works best with dark hair, but it’ll still work for you blondes. That is your natural color, isn’t it?”
    “You mean down there?” I moaned as she continued her New Age torture.
    If anyone had the scoop on whether the carpet matched the drapes, it was Lydia. After all, this was the woman who had promised: “You’ll never have to shave or wax again!” The first time Toni took me to her shop, a big white machine hummed from the corner, alongside an operating table neatly covered in a plain blue hospital sheet. I watched in shock as this stylish middle-aged woman pulled down her pants and underwear past a well-trimmed patch of pubic hair to reveal the cleanest, silkiest bikini line I’d ever laid eyes on. “See this?” Lydia said, swiping her finger past the woman’s privates. “Three treatments. Perfect, isn’t it?” I was sold. A 50-year-old woman I didn’t know had shown me her landing strip—this could only happen in Beverly Hills.
    “Hey, chiquitas!” Toni announced unexpectedly, yanking the curtain aside, which had been the only thing separating me from total humiliation.
    “What the fuck?!” I shrieked, collapsing a rather cheap cat pose into a belly flop.
    “Crotch cam!” Toni yelled, laughing and positioning her phone to snap the first ever digital photograph of my ass.
    I squealed while Lydia and Toni buckled over in hysterics. “Shut the damn curtain!” I pulled the blanket around my hips. “Are you two crazy?”
    They were too busy laughing to respond.
    “This one’s on the house,” Lydia bellowed. “You girls made my day.”
    I could have killed Toni. But inasmuch as she was my new best friend, if you can call someone a best friend after barely seven months, it was better to just go with the gag and run with it. Besides, she was a bit of a force.
    At 26 years old, Toni, it seemed, had it all figured out: men,production, her head, my head, Los Angeles. By appearances, she was quintessential Hollywood: from her brand new, base model BMW (which she leased); to her dyed yellow blonde hair; to her first shots of Botox two weeks ago (complements of Lydia and totally unnecessary, but who was I to question prevention?); to her bling sunglasses (worn indoors and out); to her endless texting (even in meetings); to her required daily dose of steaming NSA lattés (CBTL of course); to placing her name on VIP lists at the five most exclusive night clubs in Hollywood (how she accomplished that remained a complete mystery to me); to insisting on shopping only at Fred Segal (though it was miles beyond her budget); to her IV vitamin therapy (?); to losing ten pounds’ worth of body curves and claiming she was still “chunky” with a 27-inch waist; to getting drunk with Toby McGuire and Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler (but not at the same time); and finally, to completely mastering the art of celebrity name-dropping.
    That was her exterior. But on the inside, she was vanilla pudding. She worshipped her parents. Loved her friends to a fault. And was incredibly generous. On top of that, we had a blast together, both on and off the job. After months of dealing with Looney-Balls Lucy, the two of us had ample opportunity to bond.
    “So, back to work now, you two?” Lydia said, powering down the laser. “How is that crazy Kitten Show coming along? What’s it called again, Purrfect Life ? Ha! What next?”
    “Fine,” I grunted, still sweating from the ordeal while gingerly zipping up my jeans.
    “Oh my God,” Toni continued, “talk about high maintenance. Those girls are driving me crazy. Lucy was in Star magazine last week, on their Who’s Hot list. Can you believe it?”
    “Isn’t she like forty?” Lydia asked. “A little old to be taking her clothes off.”
    “Totally,” Toni agreed. “Jane, how old is she, anyway?”
    “I’m still mad at you two.” I shot a fierce look their way, trying not to laugh.
    “Don’t