Its getting closer, I can feel it, Summer is definitely getting closer. And with it, comes the inevitable need for some serious crotch pruning. While I like to delude myself that pushing 32 next birthday has left my body pretty much unscathed, the same alas, cannot be said for my hair growth. Gone are the days when strange women in Topshop changing rooms complimented me on my pristine, smooth and hairless bikini line. Gone are the days when I could pop on a micro mini thong and not look like Id killed several spiders in the process. It is a sad and unfortunate truth of ageing as a woman, that your pubic hair gains a spiritual life all of its own.
So anyway, recently, what with summer fast approaching and all, I decided to be brave and book into a local salon for a wax treatment well two actually, bikini and (on the dubious advice of my very blonde and hairless best friend) top lip wax. Its not that I look like a Russian shot putter or anything, I mean I dont have a handlebar moustache if thats what youre thinking. However, given that I am naturally very dark haired I inevitably worried that the tash while not currently visible, was there waiting to pounce. So I duly booked an appointment with Tammy the beautician and trotted along, fresh out of the shower, wearing my best knickers, in an effort not to offend. Not being familiar with salon etiquette, I had left well alone south of the border and was sporting a decidedly 70s retro bush by the time I arrived. Imagine my cringing horror when Tammy, who I could cheerfully have slapped at that moment, handed me a pair of nail scissors and instructed me to trim the bits I wanting waxing first. She gaily skipped out the room, leaving me, scissors in hand trying not to self mutilate my own labia, in front of a slightly too high mirror. Consequently, upon her return, it was to find me standing on tip toe and folded double, head between legs ostrich style, cursing my own pubic hair to hell and swearing vehemently under my breath. Needless to say, any grand plans of a Hollywood went straight out the window, seeing as I was trying to trim my most sensitive bits with a pair of scissors so sharp, I managed to cut a chunk out of my own knickers..I settled for a modest crew cut and desperate to regain a little decorum, reclined on the couch, awaiting further instruction.
Tammy, give her her due, seemed very professional and totally unphased by my bush being inches from her face and congratulated me on my lip control (I was hanging on for grim death, convinced that if I exited my knicker elastic at that point, I would surely curl up and die from embarrassment!) Unsure as to whether she was taking the piss or not, I nodded politely, tight lipped (scuse the pun) and increasingly mortified. In no time at all she had finished and encouraged me to have a quick look in the mirror at her handiwork. To say I was pleased with the result is an understatement. She had done a fabulous job and I beamed at my neat and perky new hemline appreciatively.
As you can imagine, by now the idea of her doing my top lip (on my face) held no terror whatsoever. I mean, shed just make a virtual work of art of my pant region, what could go wrong? What, indeed...
<*dv_2*> Tammy set about waxing my lip and almost immediately, it hurt. I dont mean in an ouch, that hurt sort of way, I mean in an OUCH,YOU BITCH THAT F**KING HURT kind of way. My eyes were watering, my nose was running and my lip was stinging like mad. Tammy quickly slathered some blue goo on it, telling me it was witch hazel gel and good to reduce irritationI was (naively) placated and lay in silence, trying to draw comfort from the fact it was nearly over. When shed finally finished, I squinted in the mirror, hmmm bit red but not bad actually, I thought.
<*dv_0*> I paid, rebooked for a bikini wax and left. On my arrival home, I nipped to the bathroom to admire my new svelte lips, all four of them, only to be greeted by the horrific sight of my swollen, red, traumatised lower face. Whimpering pathetically, I applied some antiseptic and decided to leave well alone until next day by then it would fine, right?
Next day, I looked like Id contracted the phage and opening my mouth any wider than a crack was impossible. Five days later, on a liquid diet and having dropped a couple of pounds in weight as a result, Id exhausted several tubes of creams and ointments. However, at least I had started to look a bit more human.
<*dv_1*> Ten days on and Ive got an unsightly patch that glows red if I dry it too enthusiastically and to add insult to injury, Im convinced I spotted regrowth this morning. Meanwhile my next appointment with Tammy looms and Im too embarrassed to cancel. The irony of this tale is that, newly single again, the chances of anyone but me seeing my bush are slim to say the least! And as for my lip, apart from noticing the scabby havoc wreaked by Tammy and her molten wax, none of my mates has even noticed any difference.
So there you have it boys, Ive put myself through torture the likes of which you can only dream of and for what? Not only am I now ten quid poorer and sporting a crap facial scar, but the bikini grow-back is like sitting naked on a coconut doormat. So Ive decided in future, any bloke who comments on my au naturelle bush and hints that his preference runs to the more aerodynamic, can just bugger off. Frankly, as far as lap action goes, Ive had more comfortable caesarean sections. The fuzz stays!
Submitted by Sarah Martin
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