STORIES: THE AT HOME WAX
I'm sitting half naked on the closed toilet, with a hand mirror, and a sense of adventure.
When I was working minimum wage, body maintenance had to be done on a budget. There was no room in my weekly cash expenditure for trivial things like eyebrow appointments, or waxes. It was all about those pink plastic BIC razors, and pretending my brows were bushy on purpose. #fashun
I was working as a beauty buyer at a supermarket, and I was friendly with a vendor that sold Nair. Now, 19 year old me didn't know shit about home waxing but this blonde woman with lipstick on her teeth was INSISTENT that I would be a naked mole rat in the blink of an eye. And I could have it for free! Yus!
Honestly, stupidest moment of my life.
I would come to learn that an at home Brazilian wax was not made of rainbows and sunshine and baby smooth skin, but rather murderous thoughts and underwear being stuck in unfortunate places.
No matter how many times I popped that plastic tub of gloopy doom in the microwave, the wax never seemed to properly melt. 'Maybe this is what it's meant to be like?' - the tub said to heat until mixture was easy to stir. It currently looked like someone had peed in a bottle of maple syrup, but maye that was legit.
With my resilience high, I decided to push through and just get on with it because being hairless from the eyebrows down was 19 year old me's dream. I wanted to be SMOOTH. But I was also RECKLESS and ON A BUDGET.
Using the hand mirror, I slathered some demon wax onto my nether regions. Also, it's rather confronting having a hand mirror inches away from your lady garden. They say to get to know your vagina, but frankly I'd rather stay casual acquaintances with mine.
Leave strip for 15-30 seconds.
Thats ages, I might as well layer on a couple more so I'm ahead of time.
Bracing myself, I grip the first strip and PULL UPWARDS.
... Nothing happens.
The fucking strip has fastened itself to my pubes tighter than Rose clung on to that door in the Titanic.
Oh my sweet jesus. I'm panicking and I start to get really reckless and just start aggressively pulling at any of the random strips currently attached to my chacha. I manage to pull the wretched pieces of cloth off myself, and for a moment I'm so elated that I've got them off, that I don't realise the searing pain running through my entire body.
I look down, and momentarily, I think I'm looking at an abstract painting of chewbacca. Wait no, that's my mangled excuse for a vagina.
What do I do? I cant do that again.
But I cant leave it like this.
It looks like I've donated half my hair to locks of love then bailed halfway through.
No one will ever want to touch my vagina again. I'm going to die a spinster.
I have to finish.
I consider playing Eye of the Tiger just to pump myself up a bit more but decide against it.
It took another FORTY FUCKING MINUTES for me to cover a probably 10cm radius (or however big my fan is) and I have never hated myself more than in those forty minutes. I thought I would grow old in that bathroom, that's how long it was taking.
But I did it. I was hairless. I was bloody and there were weird irritated bumps but I WAS SEXY GOD DAMN IT.
I wipe down, and put my undies back on and plan to go get the biggest glass of $7 sav that's ever been poured.
I'm pouring wine and I feel a bit off. Is it my residual trauma making me feel slightly sticky and gross?
Heading to the bathroom, I come to the grim realisation.
My underwear are glued inside my bum.