I cut myself shaving a couple of weeks ago. I thought it would never stop bleeding. Because I’m a world-class picker, it didn’t finally heal until a couple of days ago.
Oh, did I mention it was my face? Yeah. I’m totally bringing back sexy. Try to control yourselves.
Just to clarify, earlier this year I decided to get a few hairs lasered off my chin. Turns out you can’t wax or tweeze when you’re getting laser treatments. Nope. You have to shave like a big boy.
Guess what! When you shave instead of tweezing, all of the hairs grow in at the same time! Turns out I have WAY MORE chin hair than I thought I did. Imagine my joy.
Funny story – the chin hairs seem to be resisting the laser. Awesome, right? So, every five weeks I go in, endure the zapping, hand over my credit card and go home to wait for the hairs to grow back. I can hear them snickering as they reappear.
As humiliating as it was to cut my chin shaving, it doesn’t top the time I cut my ass shaving. No, I wasn’t shaving my ass; I was shaving my legs. I was in the shower and I had my foot propped up on the edge of the tub. I reached back to rinse the razor and sliced my ass as I brought the razor back.
Honestly? I’m a disaster.
In addition to oily skin and an unhealthy relationship with food, women of Mediterranean descent have a tendency to be…hairy. My adult life has been consumed with hair removal. I feel like I’m constantly shaving, plucking or waxing something.
Back in the late 80s, I purchased an Epilady. Do you remember the Epilady commercial? They featured a beautiful woman running the Epilady up and down her beautifully thin leg without a care in the world. Oooh, look how smooth and easy! Lying bitch. It was easy because she had no hair on her legs! This is the Epilady. Look at those coils. Do you know what happens when you turn it on? Those coils snatch your hairs and pull them out at the root. It’s barbaric and medieval. It felt like an electrical current running through my shin. They should have sent a complimentary Valium with it. It would have been the decent thing to do.
I’ve spent hundreds of dollars on bleaches and hair removal products over the years. I could buy a Lexus with what I’ve spent on waxing alone.
Not my bikini line, though. Oh, hell no. Never again.
So many of my friends talked about getting their bikini lines waxed.
‘It’s so much easier!’
‘No more razor burn!’
And my personal favorite…
‘It hurts at first, but you get used to it!’
So, I decided to give it a whirl. It was about 15 years ago. We were scheduled to go to the Outer Banks for a family vacation. I made an appointment to go after work the day before we were scheduled to leave. The place was nice enough – dimly lit and relaxing. I think there were candles. A tiny woman with a pixie haircut came in and introduced herself.
I don’t remember her name. Let’s just call her Cruella.
She was a lovely, kind, gentle woman. As she slathered the hot wax on my bikini line and pressed the muslin onto the wax, she told me she was recovering from a bout with breast cancer. She said she had had a mastectomy and reconstructive surgery, but that she had not had the nipple constructed just yet.
Do you want to see it? RRRRIP!!!
I almost slapped her.
It felt like I was on fire. I was lightheaded and sweating. All I could think about was the fact that she still had to do the other side.
Then she showed me her nipple-less breast. True story.
‘Wow. That’s…unusual,’ said I.
It’s difficult to describe the anxiety I felt as she slathered the wax on the other side. I don’t remember too much after that, other than walking to my car with my legs spread as wide apart as possible (so my bikini line didn’t rub against anything) and whimpering the whole way home.
About halfway through our vacation, the burning stopped, the redness went away and the bumps started to subside. But the memory lived on. I never tried it again. Nope. Instead, I just do my best with clippers and razors and bathing suits that hide as much as possible. Meanwhile, I continue to pray that, when I die, I’ll come back as a man.