I’m 30 years old and I’ve never had my bikini line waxed.
There! I’ve said it! That wasn’t so hard after all. I ALMOST got it done once but it didn’t quite happen. My sister is a beauty therapist (I think she got all the personal grooming and I got the leftovers) and had to find a model for her bikini waxing exam. She announced this casually one day and I just kind of let it gloss over me, waiting for the subject to change. Waxing, primping and preening have never been my strongest topic. If it came up on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire I’d have to 50:50, ask the audience AND phone a friend (my sister, probably). However, the subject didn’t change and it turned out she was in trouble. In trouble and turning to me, the Big Sister, to help her out.
The problem, it turned out, was that all of her friends keep themselves so trim and tidy that they weren’t suitable candidates for her exam. I, on the other hand, had never had hot wax anywhere near me. (I’m of the view that the hair must be there for a reason so who am I to just rip it cruelly out? God must have had a reason for this and I’m not going to argue with that.) This, she pleaded, would give her plenty of scope to show the examiner just what she could do. To be honest, she had the scope to create some pretty fancy art down there if she wanted to, but thankfully that wasn’t part of the test. Reluctantly, I agreed to go through with it, like the condemned man (or woman) on the way to the block.
I had many reservations about this. I wasn’t sure I wanted my sister getting up close and personal, and I certainly wasn’t comfortable flashing the results to a stern examiner. Would they get the magnifying glass out to check that every hair had gone? Could I stand up to such scrutiny?
I also had the sneakiest suspicion that this was going to hurt. A lot.
On the day of the exam I strolled oh-so-casually and confidently (well, hopefully on the outside) up to the college and climbed onto the table. There were several other women in little curtained off cubicles – I wasn’t alone and they weren’t screaming in terror. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad. She drew the curtain round and I could feel my heartbeat increase; my breathing grew shallow; my palms were sweaty. This was it. The moment of truth.
As she dipped the lollipop stick into the hot, golden wax and advanced towards me I knew this was my last chance to escape. But no matter how scared I was, there was no way I was letting my sister down. She spread the wax in a thin strip at the top of my thighs and I felt the warm reassuring heat. Great! We weren’t going to go straight for the bikini area. We were going to build up to it. This, I could cope with. Lulled into a sense of security, next came the rip. I have only vague memories of that moment. A sense of white pain, stars in my eyes, but no specific memories. All I know is that she did the same on the other side and told me I was done. No examiner came to check and my bikini line – such as it was – was still in tact!
Over the years I have succumbed, annually, to getting my legs waxed in preparation for a holiday, because I know there’s no way I can be bothered shaving when I’m away. I got my legs waxed a month ago for just such an occasion and, like every other time I thought, “today will be the day I’ll go for the bikini wax, too!” But, like every other time I chickened out as we reached the knee. Still, I’m getting there. At least I can now get my legs done. Maybe in time I’ll stretch to even maintaining those smooth legs past a fortnight’s holiday. I’m sure my husband would be pleased.
And so, as I remembered this story today I decided enough was enough. I’m 30 years old and am very definitely a Slummy Mummy. But that has to change, one small step at a time from this point on. And my first step on this journey? Well, it’s not quite a bikini wax but before today is out I promise that my legs will not be hairy. It’s not the finish line, but it’s a start. Yes?