1963 enema and shave

EneVera’s Beauty Parlor, 1963In the heart of Willow Creek, a sleepy town nestled in the Midwest, Vera’s Beauty Parlor was the beating pulse of gossip, glamour, and a peculiar kind of pampering. It was the summer of 1963, and Vera’s was busier than a beehive in June. The linoleum floor gleamed under fluorescent lights, the air thick with the scent of Aqua Net hairspray, ammonia from perm solutions, and the chatter of women flipping through dog-eared copies of Good Housekeeping and Ladies’ Home Journal. The parlor’s pink walls were adorned with framed photos of Jackie Kennedy’s iconic bouffant and Marilyn Monroe’s sultry curls, setting the standard for every woman who walked through the door.Vera Thompson, a stout woman in her late forties with a teased blonde beehive and cat-eye glasses, had run the parlor for nearly two decades. Her business thrived on her knack for making women feel like movie stars, but this summer, she’d outdone herself. In June, Vera announced her “Fourth of July Special”: a free enema with every wash and set for the entire month. The idea was as bold as it was bizarre, but Vera, ever the entrepreneur, knew how to draw a crowd. Word spread faster than a brushfire, and by July, the appointment book was packed tighter than a sardine can. The regulars—housewives, schoolteachers, and even the preacher’s wife—were buzzing with curiosity, and the promise of a “cleansing experience” had them jumping higher than a jackrabbit.

The Parlor RoutineIt was a sweltering Tuesday morning, July 9th, 1963, and Vera’s Beauty Parlor was in full swing. The jukebox in the corner played Connie Francis’s “Where the Boys Are,” and the hum of hairdryers mingled with the clink of rollers and the occasional giggle. The parlor had six styling stations, each with a pink vinyl chair and a mirror framed in chrome. At the back, behind a floral curtain, was the “special treatment room,” where Vera’s enema setup awaited.Marge Henderson, a plump, rosy-cheeked housewife with a penchant for gossip, was the first client of the day. She waddled in at 9 a.m., her purse clutched tightly, her eyes gleaming with equal parts excitement and nerves. “Morning, Vera!” she chirped, settling into the shampoo chair by the sink. “I’m here for the full treatment.”Vera, in her starched white smock, flashed a knowing smile. “Wash and set, Marge? And… the special?”Marge blushed but nodded. “Oh, go on, Vera. I heard it’s invigorating. Dotty said she felt like a new woman after hers last week.”Vera’s assistant, Betty, a lanky young woman with a bob as sharp as a razor, filled a basin with warm water and began shampooing Marge’s mousy brown hair. The suds smelled of lavender, and Marge sighed as Betty’s fingers massaged her scalp. But the real show was about to begin.Behind the floral curtain, Vera prepared the enema equipment with the precision of a nurse. She filled a two-quart rubber enema bag with hot water, stirring in a generous squirt of Dr. Bronner’s peppermint castile soap until the mixture was frothy. The bag hung from a stainless steel IV pole, its hose neatly coiled, the nozzle—a sleek, black plastic number—lubricated with a dab of Vaseline. Vera wheeled the setup to Marge’s side, the pole’s wheels squeaking faintly.“Ready for the first step, hon?” Vera asked, her voice as smooth as molasses.Marge, her hair now rinsed and wrapped in a towel, gave a nervous giggle. “As I’ll ever be.”Vera parted the towel at Marge’s lower back, discreetly lifting her skirt and sliding her undergarments aside. With practiced ease, she inserted the lubed nozzle, her movements quick and clinical. Marge let out a small gasp but relaxed as Vera secured the hose and clamped it shut. The enema bag swayed gently on the pole, its soapy contents waiting.

To the Styling ChairVera led Marge to a styling chair, the IV pole trailing like a loyal pet. Marge settled in, her skirt carefully arranged to conceal the hose discreetly tucked beneath. Betty took over, combing setting gel through Marge’s damp hair and sectioning it with metal clips. She wound each section tightly around pink and blue rollers, her fingers flying as she created a pattern that would set into a perfect bouffant. Marge’s eyes flicked to the mirror, then to the enema bag, her cheeks flushing again.“You’re gonna look like a dream, Marge,” Betty said, pinning the last roller in place and securing a hairnet over the whole affair. “Ready for the dryer?”Marge nodded, and Vera wheeled the IV pole alongside as they escorted her to one of the dome-shaped hairdryers at the far end of the parlor. The dryer’s hum was a comforting drone, a sound as familiar to the regulars as their own husbands’ snores. Marge sat, her rollers gleaming under the dryer’s heat, the IV pole positioned directly in front of her. The enema bag hung at eye level, its hose dangling like a promise.Vera leaned in, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Ready for your Fourth of July special, hon? Just say the word.”Marge swallowed, her hands fidgeting in her lap. She glanced around—Dotty was under the next dryer, flipping through a magazine, and Evelyn, the librarian, was getting her perm at a nearby station. No one seemed to bat an eye. This was Vera’s, after all, where the unusual was just part of the charm.“Fill me up, Vera,” Marge said, her voice barely above a whisper.Vera’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. She reached for the clamp on the hose and released it with a soft click. The hot, soapy water began to flow, gravity pulling it through the hose and into Marge. Her eyes widened, her breath catching as the warm liquid surged inside her. The sensation was strange—full, tingling, almost electric. The peppermint soap added a faint cooling effect, mingling with the warmth in a way that made her toes curl.Vera adjusted the dryer’s heat, ensuring Marge’s rollers were setting perfectly. “Just relax, hon,” she said, patting Marge’s shoulder. “Let it do its magic. You’ll be sparkling inside and out.”

The Parlor’s PulseAs Marge sat under the dryer, the enema working its way through her system, the parlor buzzed around her. Dotty, whose enema had finished ten minutes earlier, was now sipping a Coca-Cola and dishing about her neighbor’s new Cadillac. Evelyn, still waiting for her perm to set, was debating whether to try the special next time. The jukebox switched to Elvis’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” and Betty hummed along as she swept up hair clippings.Vera moved from client to client, her energy boundless. She checked rollers, adjusted dryers, and, for those who’d opted for the special, monitored the flow of their enemas with the care of a chemist. The floral curtain at the back saw a steady stream of women, each emerging with a mix of embarrassment and exhilaration. The enema bags were refilled, the nozzles sterilized, and the IV poles wheeled back and forth like silent sentinels.By noon, the parlor was a symphony of activity. The air was warm with the heat of dryers and the faint tang of soap from the special treatment room. Marge, her enema complete, was led back to the styling chair, where Betty removed her rollers and teased her hair into a voluminous bouffant. Marge admired herself in the mirror, her cheeks glowing—not just from the enema, but from the thrill of feeling utterly transformed.“How do I look?” Marge asked, turning her head to catch every angle.“Like you could steal the show at the county fair,” Vera said, winking.Marge laughed, gathering her purse. “Sign me up for next week, Vera. Same deal.”

The Talk of the TownBy the end of July, Vera’s Fourth of July special had become the talk of Willow Creek. The beauty parlor was booked solid, with women driving from neighboring towns to experience the peculiar blend of glamour and “cleansing.” The local drugstore reported a spike in sales of Dr. Bronner’s soap, and the hardware store sold out of IV poles after Vera placed a bulk order.Some whispered that Vera’s special was scandalous, but the regulars didn’t care. They left the parlor with perfect hair and a spring in their step, feeling lighter in more ways than one. Vera, ever the savvy businesswoman, was already dreaming up her next promotion—perhaps a Labor Day special with a twist.As the sun set on Willow Creek, the neon sign above Vera’s Beauty Parlor glowed pink against the twilight. Inside, the jukebox played on, the dryers hummed, and the women of the town sat under their domes, rollers in place, enema bags swaying gently, all part of the strange, splendid ritual that was Vera’s.