I live out of town. Town, for me, is a half hour drive. 35 kilometres… or for you south of the border folks, I have no fucking idea how many miles. 15? Yeah…. Whatever…..
So, obviously, to get ALL my shit done in town is a royal pain in the ass. Groceries, banking, and what little “Me Time” I can squeeze in, especially during the summer when I have the kids home full time is always a bit of a grind…… Therefore, I forgo a lot of the little things….. I make due….
Like, oh, say…. waxing. Of the bikini area…. *points downwards*
So, knowing this, I bought a kit. Yeah. A home waxing kit. Perfect for those emergency hair removal moments when going to the beach in your bikini just might get you branded as the Sasquatch Woman.
(A word to the wise… If you are squeamish IN ANY WAY, do not read any further…)
This morning, I was ready. I noticed there were *ahem* little hairs needing to be removed, ASAP… The weather, yes, was rainy, but it will be sunny in a couple day, and I for one, do NOT want to waste any valuable beach time in hair removal, so I opted to go for it this morning… If anything, I am a time saver….. Go me.
I warmed the wax. I had oil ready for any mishaps for wax removal. I am not afraid of the pain. I had the strips in hand, and I went for it.
When the directions say “Hold the skin taut and remove strip quickly”, I would recommend putting the entire kit down, walking away and phoning your nearest salon to book an appointment. See, like most humans, I only have two hands. Therefore rendering the task of holding one’s delicate skin taut and ripping a waxy muslin strip off of one’s nethers almost impossible. I did the upper area, no problem. Then came the inner area. I spread the wax, applied the cloth strip and pulled.
“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK” Is what I vaguely recall that flew out of my mouth.
Beads of sweat appeared on my brow. I looked and saw no wax removed. I applied the strip again, holding my breath and my bits as taut as I could.
“FUCK ME RUNNING…….. AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!”
I looked. Yes, the wax was removed, and I could see the beginnings of a bruise the size, and oddly the shape, of a baby chipmunk on my lady bits.
I started to feel faint. But I wasn’t about to give up.
The other side went remarkably much better, although, somehow I ended up with a blob of wax running down my thigh and a chunk of it in my hair (the stuff on my head… yeah I have no idea….) and my left shoulder. Now, if you don’t already know, let me fill you in. That shit is really really STICKY. So imagine. Stickiness. Just where you really don’t want it. Especially when trying to walk.
Now, by this time, I am starting to get irritated. When the urge to punch myself in the face happens I know it is time to stop whatever I am doing and walk away….. Which I did. But not before stepping into a puddle of gooey sticky wax, congealing on my brand new tile floor.
After I cleaned up as best I could, I went downstairs. There, my 8 year old daughter asked me, with her lovely blue eyes as big as saucers, what Mommy was swearing about upstairs.
I told her that Mommy was an Epic Fail.