The Bikini Wax From Hell
Waxing has become part of a monthly routine for me now. It frustrates me that beauty standards dictated I do this at university, but then I quite liked it, so I stopped doing it for the men I wasn’t sleeping with, and instead did it for me. I felt cleaner I guess, even though it technically makes you more susceptible to things like yeast infections. There, I said it. YEAST INFECTIONS. They are so common, it still surprises me that it’s taboo to speak about them. We’ve ALL been there, and if you say you haven’t had one, you’re lying.
But let’s forget yeast infections for a second and rewind back to the whole waxing conversation.
Nobody has ever had a ‘good’ wax, let’s be upfront about that from the start. There just isn’t such a thing. But I think I can safely say that every woman (likely men too - I don’t envy the back, sack and crack debacle) has had a ‘bad’ wax. Probably more than one.
I have most definitely had more than one.
The worst though, was probably in my first year of living in London. I was young, fresh off the post-uni gap year boat (well, not that fresh), living my best basic London life, with a basic marketing job on a (very) basic salary, and just generally being an early twenty-something sassy Sally, very much channeling - yes, you’ve guessed it - Groovy Chick herself. (If you don’t know this cartoon, open a new tab immediately and google her. She wasn’t adorned across photo albums and duvet covers for teenage 90’s girls to just ignore her). But enough of that.
I’d booked a wax in Clapham (a land that a comedic graffiti artist referred to as ‘Wankerville’). I bounded down to the appointment, full of optimism that my medium sized bush was about to have a much needed pruning. I burst into the salon like a ray of sunshine and was asked to sit in the waiting area. Ten minutes later, I was shown into the small room in the back and told to strip down and lie on the bed. The lady came back in and started doing her thing.
If anyone tells you strip wax isn’t painful, they are lying. If anyone tells you hot wax isn’t painful, they are also lying. Basically, all waxing is painful, but the hot wax at least distracts you with its molten lava form and depths of hell heat on your bare skin. That’s genuinely the only difference.
So by half time, I was in a moderate amount of pain. She was going to the underside - the worst part of a Hollywood in my humble opinion - and I was bracing myself for the worst. She lathered the wax on, thicker I thought than usual, and waited. As she went to try and start the tear that would lower my pain threshold by a significant number, she couldn’t actually do it. It seemed to be...stuck.
Fuck
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
She tried again. No Luck.
Fuuuuuuuccccckkkkkk.
I looked down. How had I not noticed that the wax she was using was black. BLACK.
‘I think the wax is stuck.’ She said.
‘Hmm. Yes I got that.’
‘I shall try again.’
I lay back down on the bed, now imagining my future as a sea of images flashing before me. The first, me trying to have any sexual relations with a gigantic piece of black wax stuck to my vagina. The laughter. The torment. Next, a flash to me trying to have a baby with a gigantic piece of black wax stuck to my vagina. Then a flash to me as an old lady with a gigantic piece of black wax stuck to my vagina. And then…. RIP. Bye, vagina.
And suddenly in a moment of pure elation for both her and I and a simultaneous moment of pure pain for me, she said:
‘It’s off!’
‘Oh sweet Jesus, I thought it was going to be stuck there forever.’ I said, with genuine tears in my eyes. Tears of pain and relief I might add.
Suffice it to say, I never went back to that bikini waxing joint and was very English about the whole thing - instead of making a fuss about the fact that my vag was ripped to shreds, I paid in full, didn’t look the beautician in the eye and ran like the wind.
