Before my recent holiday I debated the merits of waxing over shaving. Shaving is pain-free but as waxing lasts longer I decided to ditch the razor blades in favour of a pot of hot wax.
Everyone I know who has ever waxed says how “fabulous it is darling” and there are plenty of adverts to back this up; most of them with annoying models who are positively thrilled at the prospect of being lost in the bathroom on a Thursday evening up to their you-know-whats in wax.
Forgive me then for thinking that my first experience of waxing was bound to be positive.
I read the instructions several times over in an attempt to find out exactly what the catch was. It all seemed far too easy: slap in on, whip it off was the general idea. So that’s what I did. I trowelled on the stuff, because I wanted to make sure that everything came off at once and I didn’t have to re-do odd patches.
And then… I didn’t have the bottle to whip it off! Suddenly I realised that all the females who had told me it’d be okay, all the adverts with the over-smiley girls, those simple bloody instructions were just propaganda. It worked in Nazi Germany and now it had happened all over western civilisation. I knew if I pulled this thing attached to my leg off it was going to hurt like no pain I’ve ever felt before.
For a grief stricken moment, I pondered the implications of just leaving it there. Maybe after a few years it would wear off a bit and I’d be able to go swimming again. That wouldn’t be so bad would it? I only really go swimming on holiday anyway.
Thought number two was to phone a friend. I could have a mate on the other end of the phone coaching me exactly what to do, what to expect. She’d convince me I was a fighter and that together we would become stronger people and get through this. But then who on earth wouldn’t find it laughable that you’ve phoned their mobile to be given waxing training?
Next I thought about calling the emergency services. They deal with bizarre situations every day and the thought had crossed my mind that it was reasonable to class this as an emergency. The only reason I didn’t do this was because I didn’t want to make it into the ‘Top 10 Ridiculous Calls to the Emergency Services in 2007’ in some tacky tabloid. I could almost see it: “A new entry at number 3: Moron from Macclesfield in Hot Wax Fiasco”
There was no other option. I had to bite the bullet (or a wooden cooking spoon to be precise) and just pull it off in the opposite direction to the hair growth, which took me ten minutes to figure out.
It finally came off but not before a searing shot of pain raced through my body. Had I let myself scream out loud I would have either raised the dead, set off all the car alarms in a five mile radius or, quite possibly, both.
The most astounding thing is some salons and beauty parlour have the audacity to advertise to women (and some men) these procedures as ‘treatments’. Surely a ‘treat’ is something pleasurable, like buying a £10 bottle of wine from Oddbins because you’ve had a really crappy week and think that this is the only way you’ll ever cheer yourself up.
I’m sure I've read about some forms of medieval torture are more humane than waxing. That’s why I’ll be sticking to my pain-free razor in the future.
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