Like Chinese Water Torture, only... Not.
WARNING: TMI ALERT!
There. You have been warned. Read on about my waxing exploits at your own peril… Also, if you’re my parents, what are you doing reading my blog?!
The things us girls do to our physical selves to gain some psychological pinnacle of happiness… We primp, pluck, shave, squeeze, pant, sweat (or glow, since it’s more… graceful), dye, diet, inject… And we wax. Oh, do we wax…
So there I was, willingly spreading my legs for some stranger ready to torture me with hot wax… Okay, so waxer extraordinaire Lauren isn’t exactly a stranger anymore… No woman who’s helped you through the mysteries of the Brazilians, landing strips and Hollywoods (or the Telly Savalases, as my husband would grin) of the world can be considered a stranger anymore.
I’m babbling away a mile a minute in an attempt to alleviate the excruciating embarrassment that is a waxing session… And Lauren lets me. In fact, when I go quiet, she gets worried. It’s all going as smoothly as one would expect, and only one bit remains. She snaps her gloves, ladles up a good helping of hot wax and says in a no-nonsense manner: “Right. Lift up both your legs now. Right up.”
So I assume the position and let go of my last shreds of dignity. Not even my gynea ever gets this far. Right about now I can also hear the voice of my middle sister in my head, very unimpressed with my whimpering BLOODY HELL IT HURTS blushing self: “Oh, harden the fuck up. You haven’t ever popped out a baby. I’m going for number two.” Apparently, once you’ve had a child you redefine the concept of dignity. As in, you give it up and don’t look back.
I remember my first-ever waxing session. I walked away slightly bowlegged and cursing like a sailor, swearing that I’d never be back, and that any love interests would simply have to deal with the fact that I’m a hairy hippie and happy to be one.
But of course I did go back, playing hopscotch between beauty salons until I found the genius that is Lauren. Since then I’ve become her most exasperating client. See, I “forget” to book appointments. Months go by without her seeing me. And when I finally get around to doing some damage to the Amazon, it’s like the first time all over again. Apparently it’s supposed to get easier as you go along – but you have to go regularly.
This time was a monster. And at the end of it, she fixed me with a stern eye and forced me to make my next appointment right then and there. So I did. And then I stumbled home on rubbery legs to go nurse my wounds… One thing’s for sure: wax = negotiating power. I’m getting 600 cups of tea made for me in the next month…
