My Misadventure in the World of Self-Bikini Waxing
Spoiler Alert: Ouch.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. Hippocrates coined that term. Sure, he was probably referring to the Peloponnesian War as opposed to me, who’s referring to being trapped at home and trying to rid myself of body hair.
I know, it probably seems lower on the totem pole of importance at the moment, only increased by the fact that I’m quarantined and can’t actually be seen. But, imagine a world… in which you’re fifty percent Armenian, fifty percent Italian, and will one hundred percent emerge looking like Sasquatch after the ninety days of isolation we seem to be on track for.
I’ve lived through waxing, plucking, threading, and even some laser removal, which impressively managed to not even work. We can suffice it to say that I’m acutely aware the various levels of pain that come from ripping hair out of various parts of your body. What I didn’t take into account was the fact that the pain somehow manages to intensify when you’re ripping the hair out of your own body.
It all started innocently enough with the Sally Hansen face strips. The gateway wax if you will. A few applications and violent yanks later and poof! There I was. Hairless Rach once again. Ahh, what a fabulous feeling it was. ’Stache? Gone. Brows? Sculpted… esque. But, I couldn’t stop there and as I looked down, waves of curiosity and boredom crashed over me in equal measure.
Shaving my knees perfectly smooth had always been an insurmountable task, the Everest of leg shaves. I left the tiny facial strips in the dust. Haha! ’Stache strips? Get over yourself. I’ve conquered you; I’m on to bigger things. Bring out the wax pot!
A few minutes later, after a quick dosey-doe in the microwave, my future nemesis was melty and ready for application. What I hadn’t ever appreciated until this moment was that there’s a real cadence between applying wax, applying the strip, and then pulling it all out. Generally, sugaring was handled by someone else in my formative years; and any waxing or threading that had occurred later was administered by a woman in the basement of her nail salon.
So, I poured the wax onto my right knee. That was straightforward enough, albeit a smidge too hot, which caused the wax to form into long mozzarella style strings as I attempted to place the popsicle stick applicator back into the original wax pot. Afraid the knee-applied wax would dry out (could that even happen that quickly?), I threw a strip on it and went back to my side mission of detangling myself from the wax web I continually created with each movement. The more I moved, the more of a mess there was. And again, fearing the wax would dry out or over harden or do whatever wax does, I tolerated my gooey hands, reached down, and yanked the strip clean off. With it, every annoying, tiny little hair that frequently lingered as a small bump after shaving had kindly clung to the strip and not me.
Genius! I was triumphant. Sure, I couldn’t leave the house and I was on day four of the same baked ziti, but a couple weeks ago I unclogged my own toilet, and in this moment, I had successfully vanquished my own body hair. I’d effectively render plumbers and beauticians useless. What couldn’t I do?
And so it was with this new (and unjustified) sense of victory, I charged forward with yet the next stage of my quest. Granted, the quest wasn’t actually planned and was more slowly evolving, but being alone in an apartment for over a month can trick a girl into some crazy moves.
Sure, I went south of the border, but maybe it was time to look up northward once more. It wasn’t like I had plans for any visitors, but one can never take too much care of the carpet, or drapes, or whichever one that is. I course-corrected and found myself in the vicinity of the equator.
The wax had cooled quite a bit in the time between my knees and, well, now; but, it appeared to not be so viscous that I couldn’t spread it. Impatient as I am, I slathered on what I could, endured part two of my battle against the spiderweb of wax I’d created, and slapped on a strip. And so it was in this sad moment, trouble first arose.
When one is to undertake anything in life, once must proceed with the ferocity of a lion. That day however, I was no lion. I was but a small, newborn gazelle, foolish and meandering. As I stared down, second guessing when to remove my new nemesis, waxy strips, I sadly allowed too much time to elapse.
Shit. That was my main thought. I could tell that something was awry. This was not the comfortable, warm hug of wax I experienced with my knee. It was too cool. In fact, was my bathroom even too cool now? Had I maybe just left my foot balanced up on my sink too long, was that it? Who even thought this was a good idea in the first place? I continued to look down at the horror that awaited me. Should I do it? I really don’t want to. But, what alternative do I have? Wait for a while? Get in the shower? Hope I can melt it back down with hot shower water? Would that even work? And with each passing thought was a wasted moment. I bit my lower lip (a mistake) and reached down to the strip.
Dante had only nine circles of hell. I promise you if he had ever attempted an at-home, self-inflicted bikini wax there would have been ten.
The thing is, when you’re causing yourself the pain, two reactions happen. One — you grit your teeth (sorry about that, lower lip). Two — you tend to truncate the torture you’ve brought on yourself. It’s like ripping only half a bandaid off. After a brief intermission of stifled groaning and cursing the patriarchy, I looked back down at the bastard and mentally committed to finish this one, last, most monstrous deed.
I brought the grand finale home with a kind of screech that’s reminiscent of the grotesque noise Brad Pitt’s voice makes as he demands to know “what’s in the box.” Here’s hoping my neighbors had already fled the city lest they think a murder had occurred. In a way, one had. The murder of any remaining nerve endings I once had down there.
The upshot, of course, was that after this entire ordeal, I somehow managed to still not remove all the hair. Worse in fact, I was left with a badge of dishonor for over a week; this being an epic bruise. The only silver lining was that when I Googled, “i bruised myself waxing” there were more than a few results and that can only mean I’m by no means the only moron who has a attempted this stunt at home.
And there we have it. The PSA that most likely none of you needed. Sadly, the only thing more bruised than my nether-regions would be my ego.
