Appointment for a brazilian in an hour. Really not looking forward to it… have done a few half-assed DIY attempts in the past months, but not with a severe, judgemental bitch holding back the flaps it takes a man to appreciate… dogdammit I don’t want to go.
I don’t want some woman messing around with hot wax down there, pulling out my follicles that damn well want to stay put where they are, chilling out undisturbed among the cobwebs. Showing me the strip with admonishments of “you should have trimmed these bad boys first” or “these hairs are too short to wax properly” or “these hairs have clearly been shaved, what’s that about? You will anger the moon goddess and she will punish you with double quick growth” (shut up now) You know what else? Remember at the dentist when you were a kid, they gave you stickers with like a crocodile or something on them that said “I was brave at the dentist today”? Yeah, fuck that kind of bravery. I want stickers for putting through the waxation of my unmentionables (that I regularly mention). Someone, make that happen.
So made a last minute attempt to scour the collective knowledge of humanity on the subject. Googled desperately. Came across some drivvly forum full of hearts n smileys myspace-esque posts where a bright spark suggests an application of local anaesthetic cream. Hope! Glimmer of lovely hope. Put on some pants and rush out to the chemist, fully sure the nice lady would nod in understanding and sisterly solidarity, and procure me a pack of Waxouchbegone and all I have to do is hand over money. Then we would also fist bump. Thought to myself, all life’s problems just drift away with money. Money, baby, it’s all about the ching ching, price tag… damn that song, I don’t know how it entered my perpetual loop of catchy tunery, but it’s there. Fuck it.
But I got to the chemist, milled around looking at shampoos until the younger female labcoat was free. This time, don’t want the MAN to serve me. (ooh) Normally I buy tampons from the man, defiantly, thrusting them onto the counter proudly, challenging him to be embarassed. I dare him to think this is an awkward. transaction. He clearly doesn’t care, but I’m all up in his face anyway. I’m a woman, you chauvinistic pig! Look what we have to spend our money on! And they are taxed as luxuries! What else are we supposed to do? I bet if men had periods, they would walk around reeking of old steak, and the less mature studenty types would play pranks on each other with used tampons and things. The world is lucky women have to deal with the most grosso of bodily functions (in my opinion). Although some might argue (me, I’m arguing with myself here) that women become all mature and killjoy when they first get their periods and realise they have to deal with something gross and keep it hidden from the delicate males and maybe that’s when women stop with the toilet humour and start rolling eyes when the boys laugh at farts and the like. Maybe that’s the fork in the road where women veer off into “romantic comedy eye rolling, arms folded while disapproving of their immature husbands goofing around” territory. (Oh speaking of which, watched Hall Pass. Quick review in case you care: PASS.)
Some of us girls, however never grow up.
But this time I want the woman. I ask her for some local anaesthetic cream. She enquires as to the purpose. Consider saying it’s to get a tattoo… but decide to go for honesty. Maybe there is a specific cream for the vadge area? No. Woman is incredulous. What? For waxing? That’s way too extreme. It’s a heavy pharmaceutical blah blah blah. Is it the first time you get a wax?
And I’m all indignant, like NO I always get waxed, I just… don’t want it to hurt so much, ok?
She’s doubtful. She tells me she thinks the wax would probably not stick to the hairs because it’s a gel or something. She tells me it’s a bit OTT just for a bit of hair removal pain. I mutter something about not wanting my knee to do that reflex high kick thing it did last time, when I ended up kicking the beautician in the chest by mistake because my legs were in such a freakout of pain that they spasmed all by themselves. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry… Pharmacist doesn’t care. She’s like, I don’t think it’s a good idea. I crumple. Ok then… just these pain killer pills then. She raises an eyebrow and rings it up. I am defeated. I’ll just have to man up and take the pain like a man, like a man if men had to suffer the painful enterprise of hair removal. I have a firm conviction that as soon as I leave, the pharmacist woman will tell her colleagues all about my fucking ridiculous request and they will laugh at me, and then tell everyone.
Ok it’s time to pop my pills, hope they have some effect, and then into the shower for a serious scrubbing. Can’t wait to be attractive to paedophiles again!
I will report back.