Botox Bitch Fairy
by Katarina Keča
I met a woman yesterday like no other. So unlike anyone I’d ever met, I was shocked and somewhat scared when she opened the door. The biggest lips I had ever seen greeted me. Thin bleach blond pigtails and apple cheeks accentuated the bruising around her eyes where the concealer wasn’t doing its job. I was concerned for a moment; had this woman been beaten?
I knew I was there to help her because she’d had surgery and wasn’t able to move well. Was this a side effect?
But then I remembered—I was in Laguna Beach. My first time visiting the place L.A. folk escape to when they need a vacation or reset. This was “rich people land” and her face must be a botched Botox job. I recovered myself and followed her into the white white white house. I suddenly felt incredibly filthy. I looked down at my clothes as if seeing them for the first time and saw the sandy brown marks of my dusty roadside camp spot all over my green cargo pants and baggy T-shirt. I wore the one with the bald eagle on it—hoping I’d seem more American.
Even my cleaning tote was filthy. She must think I’m an awful cleaning lady to show up so dirty. She spoke as I followed behind her and her trail of perfume, thinking how unpresentable I felt. I walked into what looked like a tween princess room with white sheets, white furniture and pink fluffy accents. There were things everywhere. It looked as if a spoiled kid had just brought all their presents into their bedroom the day after Christmas. Bright boxes and bags everywhere, clothes, jewelry, gadgets, makeup, etc., etc., etc. She brought me into the small walk-in closet where clothes were bursting and over-explained the job I was to do.
I’d posted an ad on Craigslist offering cleaning services. She was the second person to respond. The first needed a same-day clean and I knew the four-hour drive wouldn’t be worth the gas money. Lynda had texted a long paragraph with emojis and called me babe. She seemed sweet over text—maybe creepy. I was wary pulling up to the bungalow and even kept a small can of dog maize in my pocket.
She was sweet in person though, and talked nonstop. She wanted to make it clear to me that she didn’t think she was better than me, even though I’d be the one picking up her clothes off the floor. I was to organize her closet and put her laundry away, help her make the bed and do some light cleaning. She told me she was moving out in a month, so it didn’t make much sense to me to be organizing everything when she’d start packing it away in under 3 weeks. But I’ve learned that a lot of things that make sense to others don’t make sense to me and I’ll drive myself crazy trying to find the logic in it. I was just happy to have work.
She sat on her bed, massive purplish lips in a perpetual purse and told me about herself. I probably could have said nothing all day and she would have continued to unfold her life to me as I folded her clothes. I didn’t mind though. The hours passed quickly and it was interesting to hear about her experiences.
Like how she moved to Puerto Rico for a man. When it didn’t work out, she found herself without money and almost homeless. She got creative and said what she had to to stay in a women’s shelter. She got free accommodations for six months until she met another man and moved in with him. Both men—the one she moved for and the one she met later—turned out to be awful narcissists. While she pulled out different dresses and tops from her closet, she told me about her current man. She’d been evicted from her rental room without reason and could not afford the current rental prices in Laguna Beach. Although she’d only been dating the new guy for two months, she decided to move in with him. I wanted to scrutinize, but I’d moved into an ex’s bus after only two weeks. Needless to say, it didn’t work out.
Lynda was an esthetician and accountant. One was more surprising than the other. “Oh and if you see any needles lying around it’s just for the Botox!” She laughed. She also apologized for many other things that weren’t necessary—the mess, watching me work, her language. The conversation flowed easily and I started to open up a bit about my own life. We discovered we were both empaths and hadn’t had much luck in past relationships. “I can see it in your eyes, you’ve been through a lot.” Lynda said. I looked at her, trying not to change my expression. Had I? I felt both defensive and seen. I had been through a lot—a sentiment I rarely afforded myself. But, I’m good, I’m fine! Everything’s always fine—I’m a tough girl.
Throughout the hours I organized and cleaned, we became friends. She told me she was 60, I told her I couldn’t tell. Which was true; I had no idea with her unmoving face and bruised under eyes. My judgment greeted me as I looked at all her unnecessary belongings, the rejection of her appearance and age, her dating history. And yet, was I any different? Sure, I lived in my van—but I still had too many clothes. I’d been googling Botox for myself and what I believed to be premature creases between my eyebrows. I had handfuls of failed relationships with narcissists and had definitely stayed too long out of what felt like need instead of choice. Lynda was just a different version of myself—stuck in her own cycles and trying to make the best of it. “You know that’s right bitch-“ She cut herself off “Sorry, I call all my friends bitch” I shrugged “I don’t mind.” And it was mostly true, as long as it wasn’t a man calling me a bitch. “These men don’t deserve us! We’re willing to do soooo much for them and what do they do? Bang me until I need surgery!” She scoffed. I wasn’t sure what to make of the information—how could she let him do that? Though it was easier to boggle at her lack of boundaries than my own.
As night fell, I had a pile of clothes and shoes forming that she no longer wanted and gave to me. Some designer, some knockoffs. The best was a vintage Giorgio Armani blazer. Some I knew I wouldn’t wear, some I knew I could sell. As I was finishing scrubbing the bathroom, she started putting a goodie bag together: facemasks, hand cream, body wash, collagen cleanser and expensive moisturizers, makeup and face scrubbers. She even gave me the basics like Q-tips and soap, wet wipes and paper towels. She wanted to help me out, and she did. And she needed someone to listen, and I did.
After loading my things in my van, I followed her in her white BMW with her rhinestone license plate to the bank. She withdrew cash for me and gave me a huge tip. We hugged goodbye with promises of more work. I just made $250 USD. I was starving and could barely move about my 19 square-foot van with all the new clothes, shoes and cleaning supplies everywhere. I made a veggie burger and climbed into the driver’s seat next to my dog. I sat down, bit into my burger and started crying. I made money. I could breathe. A wave of gratitude washed over me. This kind woman had given me so much: clothes, snacks, soaps and makeup, a job, a big tip and a friendship.
When I’d left my camp spot to show up at some random house of a woman on Craigslist—I asked the universe that she’d be kind and offer abundance. It felt like it had been answered. While I sat in the bank parking lot, watching cars pull in and out, a deep knowing settled in my chest. It would all work out. Not even two weeks post-breakup, driving 2,000 miles west and being on my last few dollars, here I was—cash in hand, feeling accomplished. Maybe it was only $250, but to me, it felt like everything. It was hope. It was proof that I’d be okay, that I could do it on my own.
It reminded me that I was always okay. And that we often have more in common with the strangers we meet than we first think. You never know when a fairy godmother will appear and grant your wishes.
BIO
Katarina is a writer, artist, and digital creator who lives on the road full-time in her van, traveling alongside her rescue dog, Manuka. Once an award-winning actress, Katarina stepped away from the film industry to embrace a more authentic, nomadic life. Her journey has taken her from crossing Canada on horseback to living in a cave in southern Spain, and solo backpacking through Mexico and Costa Rica. Her writing offers a raw, unfiltered glimpse into the people, places, and experiences that shape her, and her travels—each story an exploration of the unexpected beauty and truths found along the way.
