The fateful bikini wax.
Every year summer creeps upon us, announcing the dawn of the dreaded swimsuit season. If fitting into the itsy bitsy leopard print bikini that is held together by flimsy pieces of string making you resemble a piece of ham is not enough pain already, there is also the wax down South.
Over the past few years I have done the waxing myself, it’s ugly and uneven but paying someone to pour hot wax down there just conflicted with my old-school ideas of intimacy. I mean seriously, buy me a drink first, this isn’t Fifty Shades of Grey you know! However, as the end of a very long and tough year is coming to a close, I decided to ‘treat’ myself to some TLC, to give myself a rest and have someone rip the wax who actually studied to do so.
Oh, what a silly thought that was…
Usually at salons, the beautician leads you to a simple and plain room with dim lighting, earthy colour tones and the ever ongoing CD of ‘sounds of nature’ to make you feel calm and peaceful. This one however, I was led to a back room booming Beyonce’s all time hits, which looked more like a shady operating theatre than a place where women come to relieve themselves of stress.
I guess that is what you get when you take the budget route around these things.
After my eyes got used to the blinding white lights, the beautician ordered me to get rid of my pants and underwear. No leaving the room for a few minutes and giving me one of those cute towel-dresses to replace my clothes with, she just stood there as though I were inconveniencing her a hell of a lot having to wait for me to awkwardly get naked on the spot.
That must have been a sign though. Never, ever in your whole existence, ever let an annoyed beauty therapist give you a bikini wax, ever.
My second mistake was not communicating clearly as to how I wanted to be trimmed. I just wanted to be neaten up a bit, she wanted to go to the next level and just take it all off. But at this little conflict of interest I wash my hair-free body in innocence, if I can’t even get my hairstylist to only take off the ends, how the hell am I supposed to get my bikini waxer to do the same?
Anyway, as I realised she was going way more down South than I expected, I decided to grin (cringe actually) and bear it. A wax is a wax right? Wrong.
During my ordeal as I lay on the second-hand massage bed covered in clingy plastic while were tears streaming down my cheeks, I came to a few epiphanies. Firstly, this girl isn’t paid nearly enough for all the places their hands are going. Secondly, she smiles way too much for comfort when ripping apart my sensitives. Thirdly, I thanked the Lord that I rather went to university to get a boring office job that will after today keep me happy till kingdom come. And lastly, hippies, Europeans and feminists definitely had a thing going with their “I’d rather look like a cave troll than shave” ideas.
Sitting here with wax residue sticking my legs together as though I drank 3 litres Coke in one go makes the cave-troll approach not sound as bad anymore. Suddenly I feel as though new year is a great time to change lifestyles. Viva Women’s right and world peace and free love and Vive Le France or anything else for that matter that hairy women believe in!
From now on I think I’d rather show off my sexy summer swimsuit body in a burkini.