Two days ago I was walking through the local shop, needing a few things (including that fabulous moment when you realize your four year olds are switched on, but not completely, as Nora shouted loud enough for a ten block radius to hear: “Mummy! Do you need any more prune juice?” which, frankly, was awesome) and I saw a sale. A sale on wax strips.
Now I’ve tried wax strips before. They’re strips that (as per the instructions):
1) require you to warm them between your hands first
2) apply carefully to the bikini area
3) pull them off against the hair growth, as per the photo on the illustrations of the nubile young doe whose thighs do not meet, not even if she crosses her legs, and you pull off while maintaining a smile
4) have a perfect hair removal application and do not leave even a hint of redness
Only wax strips in my experience are awkward little buggers that:
1) my cold, undead-like Reynaud’s syndrome hands fail to be able to warm up past anything labelled “arctic thaw”
2) I can plaster all over my bikini area, but only while achieving yoga positions that make me see way more of myself than I really ever want to
3) my thighs meet. Let’s leave it at that.
4) not only fail to remove the majority of bikini line hair, but I spend weeks afterwards digging out the fucking ingrown hairs they did manage to remove. And I’m not that hirsute, it’s not like I look like Gunga Din down below or anything.
But faced as I am with wearing a bathing suit next week, I knew it was either get to the salon for a wax (£10, plus finding the twenty minutes to actually have a young salonist de-hair me) or take care of it myself. The wax strips were on sale for £7. They said “new, improved formula”.
Sucker that I am, I bought them.
Tuesday night I was home alone, and so once the twins were fast asleep I locked myself in the bathroom with the new box of goodies. Apparently, these wax strips are blackberry and elderflower scented, because what every woman wants is for her crotch to smell like a fruit salad, plus they have aloe to help hide those nasty “I just sat in nettles” little red bumps you get post-waxing. It was a double-sided strip of wax, so after warming them up in my armpits (cold undead hands still fail to warm up the strips, even new improved ones) I peeled the strips apart. I applied one, while carefully balancing the other very useful strip on my other leg. I got into a position that made me feel uncomfortably close to being in one of those hippy-female-getting-in-touch-with-her-body classes, the type where you kneel over a mirrror and convince yourself that your own version of dangly bits are beautiful, and I pulled.
Waxing your bikini line, whether you do it yourself or have someone else do it, can best be described as the following: Sweetmarymotherofgoddamnhurtslikeasonofabith.
Surprisingly, though, the formula has either improved or my hair follicles are feeling their age and simply give way at a stiff breeze, because most of it came off. The chick in the photos indicated that wax strips could be re-used until they weren’t sticky, and although she was a skinny bitch there was no way she’d lie, right? So I kept waxing.
Although on the downside, what they fail to tell you is that sooner or later for the uninformed newbie, you’re taking off layers of skin, too.
I wasn’t left with the red bumpy “freshly waxed” rash so much as the results of a tractor pull in my lady garden.
Worse, as I swore and went cross-eyed from the pain, the carefully balanced other strip fell on the bathroom floor and, this being my life and all, fell wax-side down. I ripped the wax off the floor, parked it on my bikini line, and repeated. Only I got the previous strip stuck on my elbow, so when I pulled that off I not only ripped the hair off my forearm, the strip went flying and wound up halfway up the wall.
It’s hard to put into words my stunning lack of coordination, but suffice to say that by the end of my little home beauty session, I’d:
1) gone through 5 wax strips (and at 2 sides per strip, that’s 10 strips) that were, when finished, something that resembled a cat’s tongue licking a Yeti
2) managed to get that very sensitive little triangle bit in the middle of every female stuck on the wax, and let’s just say that I actually came up with new swear words of pain which are best uttered in Latin
3) removed all the hair I wanted to remove
4) actually bruised my bikini line, so I may be hairless there but I do look like I’ve been involved in a very rough rugby game
5) gotten wax on the floor, on the walls, and bizarrely on one window pane.
Result – it worked. But next time I’ll spend £3 more and have a professional do it.
And without further ado, my freshly
abused waxed line and myself are off. We’re taking a break to ring in Alastair’s 50th birthday party. I’ll see you in a week and a half.
PS – I do have a post up today on In The Powder Room, and will do for next Thursday, if you want to pop in there. Today’s post is about dystopia which, you know, I almost never talk about.