Briony is due to arrive in 5 days. Things are crazy busy here as I am trying my best to get the last bookings and business done before the Christmas holiday starts. In between all of this, I have to make a booking for a wax, and this brought up some memories of my introduction to my child’s reality of waxing before she left for England. The story goes as follows. If you are easily offended, stop reading now…
My Monday started like any other, except for the fact that my daughter had booked a wax with a new waxing lady. We met at our local coffee shop for a quick coffee and a chat. The usually reserved Briony was, for once, quite excited as she sang the praises of the new lady. Apparently, she was “super awesome” and “out of this world,” throwing in the phrase “really affordable.”
This got me so motivated and thinking of the jungle that is now inhabiting my nether parts and underarms. I got sucked into the windmill of excitement. “Do you think she will have a space for me?” I asked. Without further ado, Briony immediately picked up the phone and made an appointment for Mom later that day.
Being the kind of gal I am, it never crossed my mind (again) to do a little investigation. No, balls to the walls or rather remove hair with no care, I ventured to the salon a few hours later.
Let’s face it – it is winter. Things have gotten out of control as there is no need for swimsuits at the moment. My most pressing need is that I have an appointment with a foot specialist and I wanted my legs to be clear of any debris when he examined me. I distinctly remember Briony saying “yes, book her for the same procedures as mine” when she made the booking.
Upon arrival at the salon, I am met by the owner (whom I had known for many years) and introduced to my therapist. The beautiful young African lady then shows me to the waxing room and asks me to take my clothes off and lay on the waxing table. She discreetly exits the room so I can do all of this in private.
“Nice,” I think. Soft music is played throughout the spa; a scented candle is burning, and the towel I cover myself with (after stripping off to my knickers and bra) is soft and soothing to my skin. The door opens, and my therapist comes in, chatting away, just making small talk. She walks over to me, lifts the towel, and looks at me with sorrowful eyes: “And these?” she asks, staring at my knickers in an accusing manner. “How am I supposed to work with these?“
Well, I am a little mortified at the thought of removing my panties, but I also find myself backed into a corner. To do or not to do? That is the question. I also do not want to look like I am not used to anything. So, with a sigh and a shrug, I remove the offending knickers and lay them on my little pile of clothes that are waiting for me.
My lady now takes my unwilling legs and bends them at the knee, turns around, gets a wooden spatula, dunks it in wax, blows on it a little, and before you can say ‘Bob is your uncle,’ she whips those unwilling legs apart and slaps the warm wax in places I forgot I had. Shock registers through my body. I want to close my legs with the voraciousness of a snapping alligator, but my mind says, “Hold on! Where is all that wax going to go?” Amazing how many thoughts go through your mind, how time is slowed down, and how you make your choices on your next actions based on what you are processing upstairs and downstairs at the same time. WWTF???
I stare at her but she is totally engrossed in her quest for zero hair and has that spatula filled just to reinforce her attack on my loins. Not a word came out of my mouth, I swear I was just dumbfounded. My immediate problem was the warm wax going up my hoohah and down to my starfish, God knows how I was going to make it through this. I have had enough bikini and underarm waxes in my life to know that what goes on must come off, and without any further ado my now satanic lady grabbed hold of the wax and we had airlift! Somewhere during all of this, all the exchanges of pleasantries had ceased to exist with Satan now conversing on her own like nothing is happening. She looks at me and says: “Why are you so quiet? You are making things awkward…” I look at her and reply: “I can’t speak with you now, I am speaking to Jesus…” To which she sagely nods her head and says: “Don’t feel invaded, this is my job and I love it.” Holy fucky moly… what can I say to that?
Then she takes the piece of wax that she has just ripped from my private parts and inspects it, nodding her head and still conversing with a very unwilling me. I fully expected her to say: “Oh my God, we have your lips attached to the wax! So sorry! Here is your money back…”. But the siege on my nether parts continued until there was not even a follicle of offending hair left.
I was just starting to see the light at the end of a very long and painful tunnel when she told me to turn on my side, whipped my butt cheeks apart, and slapped her magic wax wand on my starfish. This was too much for me. I wanted my mom, and I wanted to go home.
After a long and tortuous afternoon of dehairing my legs and underarms, she finally looks me in the eye and says, “Will I see you next month?” I am left a little speechless but manage to croak something like, “Well, at least I know you won’t remember my hoohah after today.” She replies, “Oh no, my dear. I remember every hoohah that crosses my path…”
The best comment of the afternoon came from Satan just before she left the room. She turned to me and said: “You did say you want the same treatment Briony has when you made the booking..” Eyebrow curled up in a questioning manner she now waits for the reply from me.
"A bit late to check, isn't it?” I reply.
Driving home, I had to smile. Please make a mental note to check any future waxing bookings that Briony might make for me. I am shocked and appalled that my child willingly succumbs to this type of manhandling on a monthly basis. My next booking is bikini line and underarms due soon. I will make it myself.
Waxed or not, it is the festive season and my kids are coming home. My wish is that everybody spends time with those they love over this period. Life is very short and happy moments come and go, sometimes we don’t even notice them until they are gone.
Happy Holidays!