redamancy | urayoru

v

There is something to be said about the trials of noblewomen when some of them—well, one of them—would gladly choose to be thrown, unarmed, into a pit of Menos rather than face the prep work that comes before a public appearance.

Yoruichi tries to look straight ahead her mother circles around her, vulture-like. Her keen eyes are examining and appraising the work her two handmaidens, Mizuho and Tamako, have completed so far.

Yoruichi's skin still feels raw from the vigorous scrub she was given in the tub earlier on; though the subsequent oil coat had helped, even her white silken underwear, thin as wax paper, applies more pressure than she's comfortable with on her skin. Her mother exactly doesn't help matters when she starts pawing at her, her hazel eyes combing through every inch of her for stray hairs that may have escaped the thoroughly unpleasant waxing and eyebrow threading.

To top things off, Yoruichi is quite certain she is slowly developing a migraine, after every droplet of water had been wrung from her hair, every knot untied, until it hung down to her lower back like a shimmering sheet of ebony.

It's not that she doesn't appreciate all the hard work that went into giving her the appearance of a plucked chicken—albeit one with shiny hair—she just wishes it wouldn't have been so painful. Or utterly useless, considering she's going to be covered in a mountain of silk soon enough.

Her forearms pass the inspection, and Yoruichi's mother pulls the sleeves of her han-juban back in place, satisfied with the result. Thankfully, she sees no reason in untying the short top, and moves on to her legs, or at least the portions left uncovered by her susoyoke. She examines her bare calves, then very casually tugs at the skirt like slip.

Yoruichi slams her hands against her thighs just in time to stop the folds from parting. "Mother!" She's not exactly modest about her own body, but her blithe attitude for most matters doesn't usually apply to her parents.

"Oh, don't make a fuss, Yoruichi—"

"If the ancestors are going to be looking that close, then maybe I don't want their blessing," Yoruichi hisses, her hands still firmly plastered down.

Looking at her mother is often like looking into a distorted mirror of herself, they are nearly identical, save for her mother's chestnut brown hair, and the permanently sour expression, much like the one she's currently wearing. "Stop being vulgar. You know perfectly well this is symbolic in nature; a cleanse for the body, followed by a cleanse for the soul."

"Mizuho and Tamako spent an hour scrubbing me down; I'm cleansed! This body is—ugh."

Undeterred, her mother pulls the lapels of the slip apart and continues the examination with the kind of disinterest befitting a physician. Yoruichi decides to simply take a few deep breaths and endure it, not wanting to prolong the ordeal. When her mother is satisfied that her body is entirely free of hair save for three key areas, she moves on to the third one, standing up at full height to observe the long mane Yoruichi consented to regrow as per her request.

Behind her mother, Mizuho looms with a brass little bucket in hand, awaiting instructions.

Please don't wax my hair down, please don't wax my hair down, please—

Her mother gives a casual flick of her wrist, and for the first time in hours, Yoruichi lets out a sigh of relief. The rest of the journey ahead is child's play compared to what she's already been put through.

"Hair and makeup," Yoruichi's mother says curtly, returning to her former seat by the table to finish her lukewarm tea.

Tamako and Mizuho hurry forward to help Yoruichi into a thick robe that will keep her undergarments clean for the rest of the process. The two of them begin to work in tandem, Mizuho's clever fingers pinning the front bangs of Yoruichi's hair back to give Tamako an unencumbered palette to work with.