An impromptu trip to Cabos, organized at the last minute to get over a disappointment, found me packing bathing suits and sundresses in a hurry, leaving me no time to get my body “bikini worthy”, meaning unwanted hair reared its ugly head in places not usually visible when fully clothed. Oh, I’ll take care of it there, I thought.

And so I did. The first call I made upon  arriving at the hotel was the beauty salon handily dandily located in the basement. An appointment was quickly arranged and, before dinner, I sauntered down the stairs to said salon. In my barely serviceable Spanish, I explained to the young girl that I needed a bikini wax. “No problema”. But I realized there was indeed a problema when hotter than usual wax was poured on my skin and, even worse, when the young lady in question started pulling with tentative hands. My high tolerance to pain was being tested but, in my unfailing politeness, unable to scream and tell her to back off, I endured another 10 minutes of torture before  actually paying her and, to add insult to injury, adding a tip for having my nether territories mangled.

Back in my room, it took me another hour to tweeze out bits and pieces of wax, using a mirror and swearing violently while inflicting more pain to my bikini area which, when all was said and done, was an enduring shade of purple closely resembling an eggplant. It turned out I had sustained a second degree burn, all in the name of beauty.

This extreme episode happened a few years ago and had since been confined to the trunk of funny travel memories but I was reminded of it today, while lying on my beautician’s table, legs akimbo, having the millionth wax of my lifetime and wishing I had the funds to invest in laser therapy. For a split second, I even considered following in the footsteps of the bra burning sisters of four decades ago who chose to let it all grow.

If I had to add up all the time spent on tweezing eyebrows, shaving legs and armpits, waxing vagina, having facials in my lifetime so far, I figured I could have spent weeks catching up on lost sleep instead. And for what? Let’s be honest. We do it for the opposite sex – in a world entirely populated by women, each and one of them knowing the exact price of proper grooming, we just wouldn’t bother. And the feminist in me gets a bit angry. Because no matter how much I insist that I dress, style my hair, put on make up just to please myself, I know there is a grain of a lie in there.

If it were just Ottie and I, my grooming would be more like his – a hair brush now and then and nail cutting when strictly necessary. Although, since time immemorial, women have submitted themselves to all sorts of beautifying processes so, at this point, it might be in our DNA. That would give me an excuse to add to my shoe collection without feeling guilty. I just couldn’t help it.



Filed under women's issues

2 responses to “WAXING POETIC. NOT

  1. silvia

    so funny that I read this piece today – last time I had a dream of you and I somewhere for a vacation, we were all set for the beach but I had to stay in the room to shave (looked like a chimp!) but I didn’t have the proper tools to do it. It turned out a disaster, worse than your Mexican experience. Anyway I am pretty sure it’s all due to last night crescentine, rather than my inconscious trying to tell me something!
    As per the reason why we do it, I’m not sure we do it for the other half of the world, I would say it’s more a cultural fact, think about all the arts iconography, could we imagine a Venus by Botticelli with hair?

  2. silvia

    first line: last night, not last time! still sleepy….

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s