The past few posts have been a bit on the Debbie Downer side of things. And it got me thinking that I need to put down some words that make me laugh. And really, what is better than self-deprecating humour?
Nothing, I say. Nothing….
The other day, I went for my regular bikini wax.
I have been a “waxee” for some time now. And, in the past, I have dabbled in the delicate art of being a “waxer”.
It’s my one “beauty” indulgence. TMI, perhaps, for some people. Feel free to leave now, if reading about ripping hair out of delicate areas via warm wax and strips of cloth make you squirm….
Yeah, I wax my bits. And while I laid back on that table covered in crinkly paper with no pants on, it really made me ponder about the…. intimacy, shall we say of this sort of female beauty rite that it offers both parties involved. By which I mean, the waxee and waxer.
Since, generally speaking, laying on a table under harsh lights without pants on means you’re at the doctor’s office for your annual you-know-what smear. Or, if you’re a sexual deviant, it could be a regular Tuesday night….. Either way, it’s compromising to say the least.
No doubt, being the waxee is the easy part in entailing the *cough* work that has to be done. However, easy isn’t exactly quite the descriptive word I would use while laying there with all manner of lady parts exposed for some stranger to come in and cause agony and torture upon.
I’ve had it done for a while now, so it isn’t nearly as bad as some people would fear. But let me be clear. Pulling hair out by its roots hurts. Being half naked with your leg up in the air or bent at a compromising angle while some person’s face is in your bizness WHILE the hair is being ripped out adds a whole new and fascinating layer to the experience.
It causes questions to arise in my brain that I would rather not type out loud. But between you and I, these questions make me giggle.
Ah, what the hell. These are the things I think about. And I know you wonder about too.
“Gee whiz, do I look, ya know, normal?”
“Oh, that wax is nice and war….*rip*… OHMYGODITHURTSSOBAD! YOU EVIL BITCH FROM HELL!!!! I WILL KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS!!!”
“Oh, God. Is she plucking hairs? Can she get her face any closer?”
“She’s looking at my butt. SHE IS LOOKING AT MY BUTT!!!!!”
“Dear sweet baby jeebus, she’s got the tweezers again! This is worse than water-boarding, I swear.”
“Wait. Did she just ask for me to hold this part tight away from that part? Is that even legal?”
“Please let me be the least-repulsive client ever… pleasepleaseplease…”
“Hm. I should ask her if my ‘roid looks okay. HAHAHAHA!!!!”
….and so forth.
Well, the things we women do. We wax, we pluck, we dye, we preen, we slather, we continuously search for that magic elixir to keep our beauty and sex appeal alive.
We place ourselves in predicaments that men would likely be alarmed and maybe slightly turned on if they even knew the half of what we do to maintain our level of beauty. Torturous, expensive, revealing, and completely superfluous.
And this wasn’t even a Brazilian.