The perils of being a woman – Peril 1 Feminine Hygiene
Let’s be honest, women have a bit of a rough deal when it comes to . . . well everything really don’t you think?
If it’s not the monthly hormonal hoedown that is the dreaded period with it’s emotional roller-coaster and spotty skin, not to mention wanting to eat everything in sight.
Then it’s the miracle of pregnancy complete with hormonal hoedown (again), dodgy skin (again), wanting to eat everything in sight (again) plus the addition of a beautiful selection of stretch-marks across a once toned and taught tummy, but which now looks like you have had the entire London Underground map tattooed to your stomach (oh yes by the time you are hitting month 8 there is more than enough room to fit Zone 6 on there too).
And thats all before we get onto the miracle that is
childbirth – enough said on that one I think.
There are, of course the more mundane things us young ladies have to go through that you gentlemen just don’t understand. (Well some of you might understand but the least said about the back, sac and crack the better I think!)
I am of course talking about the horror that is hair removal, yes, whichever way us ladies choose to do it, the fact remains it has got to be done. It is simply not socially acceptable to have hairier legs than your husb – handy in winter though, keeps you both warm.
But I digress ever so slightly.
The particular womanly peril I am talking about today is the dreaded b.i.k.i.n.i wax (BW). Now for those of you who have been fortunate enough to have never had said wax before let me explain the type of pain we are talking about here.
Think about having your eyeballs poked repeatedly with a red hot poker, then multiply that pain tenfold and we are beginning to take small steps into the territory of the pain of the BW. Add into that a not particularly skilled waxing professional and lets just say ‘vajazzled’ isn’t the first word that springs to mind when you have managed to get yourself dressed (loose fitting trousers are a must) and limped home to inspect the results in the privacy of your own home.
‘Bruised and bloody’ may be a better way of describing what looks like a murder scene at the top of your thighs. Add to this the fact that by the time the bruising has gone down and you are able to walk again without wincing – it’s time for another one.
A ‘friend’ of mine told me about her bikini waxing experience the other day. . . .
I feel it’s my duty to regale you with the tale.
‘Friend’ headed in for the appointment with the waxer lady and as waxer lady busied herself preparing the molten hot wax to attach to ‘friends’ skin before ripping it unceremoniously from it’s roots. My ‘friend’ took off her coat, then her boots, followed by her socks. Then down come the trousers and she hopped onto the bed in just her undercrackers.
The waxer lady, who was no more than 20, I’m told; turned around with a little bit of wax on a tiny stick to be greeted with the sight of my ‘friend’ sprawled ‘semi naked’ on the bed. Poor girl promptly let out a little squeal and dropped her waxy toothpick while managing to stutter
“I’m waxing your eyebrows”
while shuffling about the floor trying to get waxy toothpick off the floor which had by now, welded itself to the floor tiles and looked like it was starting to sizzle.
My ‘friend’ was by this point ever so slightly embarrassed and while scrabbling to put on her trousers quickly only managed to fall bum first into embarrassed waxer girl with trousers around her ankles.
Embarrassed waxer girl chose this moment to abandon waxy toothpick retrieval and instead dart out of the room to the safety of the reception, leaving my ‘friend’ hopping around the room trousers around her ankles and bum hanging out.
My ‘friend’ was at this point suffering a mix of emotions, on the one hand, she was extremely relieved that the waxer girl had left the room, whilst on the other hideously embarrassed that they were clearly all talking about her in horrified stage whispers out in reception, whilst at the same time attempting to formulate some sort of plan to get out of there in the quickest possible way-hairyness be damned.
The decision was taken out of her hands however, when the correct and slightly more mature waxer girl (about 23 so I’m told), came into the room and took charge of the situation, getting started on the correct procedure.
‘Apparently’ the dreaded b i k i n i wax hurt even more than the hot pokers in the eyes x10 when the burning skin of hideous embarrassment is also added to the equation.
I wouldn’t know of course – it was my ‘friend’ that told me.
I mean, I feel sorry for her . . . . .