Waxing Fail

For those of you who have never indulged in intimate waxing, allow me to set the scene for you. Imagine if you will your scrotum, if you have one of those, or your labia if you don’t. Now imagine that someone has taken a lollypop stick, and is using it to smear hot glue across the previously established genital area. We’re not talking hot like the volcanic temperatures inside a cheese toastie, but warm enough to be faintly uncomfortable. Then imagine that same person laying a strip of thick paper or fabric over the hot glue, smoothing it out with the heel of their hand, and then ripping it off in the same way that liars tell you is the best way to remove a plaster.

Good. Now we’re all on the same page.

It HURTS. You’ve all seen the videos of men getting their legs waxed for charity and howling like injured animals. That’s a fair representation of the level of pain that waxing brings. Except when you are in a salon getting your parts defuzzed, due to the fact that you have chosen to be there, and you’re dealing with professionals, all you can allow yourself is a wince, and a sharp intake of breath if you absolutely must.

Some people choose not to depilate their private parts because FUCK THAT. It’s an admirable stance, and frankly way more sensible. Choosing to leave everything as nature intended frees you from a) pain, b) expense and c) ongoing maintenance concerns.

If you do go down the waxing route, that shit has to be PRISTINE. You don’t want flaps that look like a teenage boy’s top lip. This normally means a spell in the bathroom with the tweezers afterwards, to catch the last of the stragglers.

Personally, I favour the Shearer’s Island of pubic hair, waxing from arse crack right the way through, leaving a tuft at the front to remind yourself of your adulthood.


Which brings us to last night. It’s been a while since I last went, partly because I have been single for so long that it brings into question why on earth you would even bother, and partly because the lady that I normally go to has been off on maternity leave (once you have let someone loose around your lady parts with waxing strips, you develop a certain bond of trust that makes you less likely to stray towards another beautician). Of course it was painful and inelegant, but less painful than I was expecting and mercifully brief.

When I got home, I realised why it was so brief. It had obviously been so long since I’d been that she had forgotten what I normally have done. She’d done a good job, but a good job on just the bikini line. For those of you that aren’t familiar with the terminology, that’s basically removing everything that would otherwise hang outside your swimming costume.

Not only was I left with a bit more ground coverage than expected, but there was a lot of residual beautician’s wax caught up. If you have never tried to remove beautician’s wax, let me assure you, that shit is tenacious. It’s bad enough trying to wash it off of your skin, let alone anything else. The only option was to cut it out. Thinking about it now, peanut butter might have worked…they advocate it for removing chewing gum from hair… I digress.

I hadn’t really had cause to consider exactly how evil beautician’s wax is, until the point that I was in the bathroom with gluey tufts stuck to my scissors which were in turn stuck to me. The wax was everywhere. I tried to text my sister for sympathy and got the phone stuck to my hand.

You’re not supposed to get into a hot bath immediately after waxing, but it really was the only option I could see. I would like to add an extra ouch in at this stage. Hot water and soap was not having any discernible impact, so I made a decision. I was going to shave down to a reasonable length and then epilate to match the rest of my gleaming crevice.

Yes that’s right I said epilate. If you don’t know what an epilator is, it looks like an electric shaver, but instead of blades, it has loads of pairs of tiny metal plates that open and close to trap hairs between them, all on a rotating barrel that spins around to rip the trapped hair out. If that sounds a bit like the sewer clearing machine from Labyrinth to you, you wouldn’t be a million miles off – it’s brutal but effective.


I am sure that over the course of my life I have done plenty of things less dignified than epilating my crack, but none really spring to mind right now.

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