Okay, before you drum up an image of some hirsute Frida Kahlo-type, I’ve been keeping the bare essentials in check with a razor. But like all things feminine and indulgent and personal- grooming I haven’t had time for much more than a ” bic & go” since the eldest was born.
But I’d finally decided enough was enough. At 35 it was time to start noticing again. Start trimming the hedge properly so to speak before the good lord starts turning it grey or, god forbid, taking it away entirely. (Does that even HAPPEN?)
So anyway, I was at the local depilation salon perusing the “menu” when I began to feel just a little bit out of my depth.
“Bikini waxing – your choice from American, Landing strip, Brazilian or Playboy”.
I quickly checked my surroundings thinking perhaps I’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in a specialist offy selling exotic rums.
You see, in my day a wax was a wax. A few stray cats whiskers pulled and plucked, a run-away spider de-legged before the swimming season began. Cheap paper towel tucked into bikini bottoms. Legs akimbo. Schlip. Schlip. And we were done.
But not now. No. Now you need to be a discerning connoisseur in hair removal. Where once it was just about minimising embarrassment, now its all about expression and seduction and the perfect aesthetic. And quite frankly, it’s intimidating.
And I don’t even want to imagine what position you need to get your self into to achieve the Hollywood, nor what the poor beautician has to look at. Noone should have to see that without at least an MSc.
So how did it go, or rather how much? I’m not even sure I’ve stopped blushing for long enough to take a look.