Sometimes being a girl is hard. You see all the celebrities doing it successfully, with their teeny tiny little stiletto heels and their perfectly solid fringes, and you look in the mirror and wonder what went wrong. Specifically, the fact that you are wearing sweat pants (or in my case yoga pants that are barely ever used for yoga), have toothpaste on your tank top, and hair that looks like you got caught in the eye of a storm. And that’s just Monday.
I’ve talked in length about beauty treatments before – tanning disasters, not understanding how people relax during massages; the list is endless. But last night when chatting with my sister, I remembered my first leg waxing experience.
For those new to this AA style giving out of information, my name is Belle (well, it isn’t) and I have skin like Casper the Friendly Ghost, just slightly less friendly. The polite amongst us refer to it as ‘creamy’ or ‘albaster’; in all honesty its basically see through and scary to children when devoid of makeup. My hair on the other hand, is naturally the darkest of brown, so of you are visualising Morticia Addams, then you wouldn’t be far off the mark.
Its funny how beautifying can get us from A to B, isn’t it?
I remember with alarm the first time I decided waxing my legs was the answer. I bought th strips, diligently read the instructions and decided that, fully armed with the information, I would go ahead. I waited till everyone was out of the house (preparing for screams that no one could hear and ridiculing from my little sister) and stuck a strip onto my leg. Fine. I tentatively gave it a little tweak. Ouch.
I had a dilemma. I could either rip it off, like a plaster and be in agony, or I could leave it there. It would fall off eventually. I pulled again. It REALLY hurt.
Fast forward to two hours later, and my sister returned. I filled her in with the details of the dramatic leg waxing episode. She laughed, and asked me to see the red bit where the waxing strip was.
I rolled up the leg of my trousers, and there, bold as brass, was the wax strip. I had gone with leaving it there forever, where it remains to this day.
Not really. My sister spent a good forty minutes giggling at my plight, which made me really huffy and then decided to help me by lunging at it and ripping it off. I thought she had cut my leg off.
Needless to say, over the last decade I have seriously manned up and created a workaround. One of my best friends is a beautician so she does my waxing at her house, where my goddaughters live. I figure that screaming swear words at her isn’t suitable for the delicate ears of my babies, so I keep my mouth shut.
There’s always a solution, right?