I’m a waxer. I started a few years ago with a grimace and now it’s pretty much a breeze (I figure there are way more painful things to deal with in life and this is just a walk in the park). It’s a little bit of an addiction, as I battle the follicle fury around once a month by yanking the stubborn suckers out. I paid for this duty and chalked it up on the ‘stuff women do for beauty’, as a necessity. Then two months ago a flashing light bulb crashed into my head with a ‘why don’t you do it yourself?’ Really? Yes, really.
So I bought some sticky wax the colour of toffee and mentally prepared myself. As the microwave melted the molten mess, I self-prophesised ‘I can do this, I really can’. I was a good girl and followed the directions, but what the instructions failed to mention was that being a contortionist would be beneficial. The first applications were easy, straight on and off with the cotton strips.
This was the beginning of the end.
Picture Pooh Bear caught with his paws in a pot of honey, except less cutesy and more ‘holy crap everything I touch sticks to me’ with notes of ‘are my lady parts a triangular piece of toast?’ An eternity and two showers later, I had actually managed to do an all right job.
Last night, it was that time of month again. I was armed with wax that didn’t come with strips, just like being at the beautician. I’ve got this.
I was wrong.
First it wouldn’t heat like the instructions said it would. So I was back and forth to the microwave trying to conceal the pot from my two male flatmates. Once again I was foiled by the ease in which the whole escapade began. Sure enough I was spiralling into this sticky situation where the wax dripped down from my crotch and suspended like snot icicles, where the 1980’s tiles on the bathroom floor decided they would like to be waxed too, where my singlet and parts of the back of my thigh ended up tagged in wax, and where I accidently sealed my vajayjay shut.
The wax kept setting in the pot and not on me, so I sat there picking at it like a vulture until my fingers were fused together. It was like having that one bit of tape stuck to you, transferring from finger to finger until you finally flap it off. I had to also cue some stealth shuffle moves to the microwave on several occasions, concealing webs of wax strings. All of this from a pot claiming a ‘sensual scent of peach and mango’… didn’t I get lucky? Well after that rigmarole, the results were surprisingly good (I may have cried if they weren’t).
I now have around 30 days to ponder what to use next time… maybe maple syrup and fabric off cuts? Until then, I’m free to jump into the waves wearing a bikini without worrying about bush on the beach.
Did I just blog about this??? Yes, really. I did. Another awkward life defining moment… sigh.