The Woes of Waxing, Not So Poetic
So, as I was on my way to the salon for a leg wax and full Brazilian, I paused at a red light and pondered why exactly on God’s Good Earth I had chosen this particular impending fate.
Waxing, especially of my nether regions, could take this year’s goal of going outside my comfort zone to an entirely new level.
When making my appointment, I was told the hair on my legs should be about the length of a grain of rice. However, during the chaos of my recent move, my legs had been sorely neglected. The hair more closely resembled al dente spaghetti.
But we soon encountered bigger problems. After she’d gotten about a fourth of the way through one leg, my “esthetician,” Rebekah, frowned and said, “Wow, your leg looks like a road map.”
Probably I should have remembered—before I was in the midst of having every hair below my waist ripped from my body—that I have a condition called “dermographism.” This means I have highly sensitive skin that welts up so much under the slightest scratching or pressure that you can literally write on it with just the brush of a fingernail.
I glanced down at my leg. It appeared as if I’d encountered a swarm of giant killer mosquitoes. I winced, but reassured her it wasn’t a problem. My dermographism didn’t generally pose a big problem, and neither did my allergies, thanks to my bi-weekly immunotherapy injections, daily doses of Allegra, and nightly spurts of nasal spray.
The wax, she noted, was primarily made from pine oil. Could this pose any allergy issues? Hmm. I considered this. My host of allergies includes dogs and cats (I only have a total of five in my house), dust, mold, weeds, and grasses.
And most trees.
I shrugged. What the hell. I reassured her I had an EpiPen in my purse, which she could jab into my thigh at the first sign that my throat was swelling shut and cutting off my breathing.
Strangely, this did not put her mind at ease. Yet still we continued. I had a new item to check off my 52/52 list, damn it, and death by wax could be a new experience for both us.
Fortunately, I didn’t die. Not from an allergic reaction nor from the pain. It wasn’t quite as horrific as I imagined. And the waxing of my cupid’s cupboard, which I feared the most, wasn’t even the worst. The most agonizing was the waxing of my shins, where the thin skin is more sensitive. For a single moment in my life, I wished for fatter ankles.
I was dumbfounded by her story about a client who, after many years of waxing, has become so desensitized to the pain that she falls asleep during the procedure. Clearly she is one sick, masochistic woman.
Yet the most painful aspect of the experience was surely the mental anguish. As we finished up my Brazilian process, she said I had a couple options. One was to get on all fours upon the table. The other was to lie on my back and hold both legs in the air—as if positioned for a backward somersault.
It was a lose-lose situation. I flipped a mental coin and chose the latter.
And while I found myself in this most humiliating of positions, she told me the story of a client who drives in from an hour away. This woman told Rebekah she won’t get her hoo-ha waxed locally because she wants to ensure she is never forced to make eye contact on the street with anyone who has viewed her this particular way.
Good point. Rebekah was pleasant and professional, but I hope I never meet up with her in the produce aisle at Kroger.
And after my experience, I still have to wonder: Why would women put themselves through this ordeal, willingly, on a regular basis? Are there any true benefits? Sure, it might make wearing a bikini more aesthetically pleasing. I suppose there may be some more erotic motives, too.
But at this point in my life, neither is a compelling reason.
Surprisingly, this may not end up being the most painful item on my list of the year’s new experiences.
But it could win out as the most uncomfortably embarrassing one. At least by a hair.
Check out more of Sherry’s adventures at The 52/52 Project on Facebook. Next up: a solo camping trip, complete with tent and mosquitoes. Sherry’s a glutton for punishment.
Noted on grocery list: fresh pack of razors.