Not For the Faint of Heart

Inside my body, I host a little factory.  I have tiny workers on a production line, creating Estrogen.  They've had job security for the past 30 years.  They don't read the newspapers or get time off to watch the news so I am puzzled how they knew about the recession.  Apparently, the factory boss has been laying off a lot of workers.  In fact, I'm suspecting there has been a hostile takeover by a competitor factory called Testosterone. Either way I still have to deal with the fallout.

Whiskers.

Thanks to Brooke Shields, my eyebrow plucking was minimized to simply separating my unibrow.  Once I outgrew that, I just coasted along with the occasional maverick hair breaching a mole. However, I am a woman with sisters.  My sisters scrutinize any and all possible flaws.  This year on vacation one sister found a renegade hair and screamed in horror.  The other sister, present at the time, reached over and yanked it out.  This is my Italian sister.  Okay, we can't really trace our roots back to Italy, but it's two against two.  Two red-headed, fair skinned women who barely know how to use a razor.  Then the two who grow hair.  One of us (not me) has had it lasered.  It grew back.  One of us (not me) had a bikini wax before going to Hawaii.  Except it turned into more than that.  That's all I'll say.

I've finally grown as self-conscious as my sister.  I went to a beauty supply store and bought a waxing kit.  Not knowing what kind to get, I had to ask an associate in front of my 12 year old daughter.  We then had to speak in code as she discussed the finer points of a Brazilian wax. But let's just start with the face.

This morning I finally dedicated a window of time to slop warm, pink goop onto my face and rip the hair out by its tiny roots.  I placed the cloth over the goop, rubbed it in really good, then ripped it off with a grimace.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I can't believe I didn't swear.

Once I had annihilated as many unsuspecting hair follicles as possible, I went to the task of removing the rest of the wax with the enclosed minuscule bottle of coconut oil.  Once I exhausted that supply, I had to walk through the house with bits of toilet paper stuck to my pink, waxy face to retrieve the olive oil.  Nobody even mentioned it.  That, in and of itself, disturbs me.

After rubbing my face and fingertips, I successfully removed all residual wax and resumed my waxing regiment.  I was to smooth a "skin calmer" on the affected area.  I did so before realizing I should have read the ingredients.  Second ingredient is alcohol.

Again, I can't believe I didn't swear.

Last was a concoction to prevent new hair growth too soon.  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, I'm an idiot.  It stung until I had tears rolling down my face.  The tears then stung my damaged skin, which, at this point was bleeding.

Just then, the doorbell rang.  Am I alone in the house?  No I am not.  Is anybody going to get the door?  No, they will not.  It was just the neighbor lady whose complexion is peaches and cream, hair always perfectly coiffed, and not a maverick hair in sight.

My burning skin calmed a little, I decided I could tolerate a shower. I happily picked up my razor to shave my legs.  There is no way I would entertain waxing my nether regions.

Exiting the shower, I gave one last look at the reflection in front of me. That's when I saw the insult and irony.

One stray black hair pointing out of my chin.

See Craigslist for slightly used home waxing kit.