I was in town the other day with a friend of mine, both of us determined to get Christmas shopping started. After almost fainting at the price of Urban Decay eye shadow for my daughter I staggered over to the electrical hair and beauty products for men and women. My friend was looking for one of those shavers for her son that could make decorations on his face. You know the type, he could go for the dark sexy smouldering look or he could make himself look like a pimp. Not having a son myself I started looking at lady shavers which got me thinking of my own hairy situation. Nothing wrong with a quick shave of the pits and legs but I was never a fan of tackling the whole lady garden area. My idea of keeping the garden tidy was a bit of conditioner to make it soft and when I was able to plait it, the kitchen scissors was smuggled into the bathroom and I happily hacked away. This in turn got me thinking of THAT DAY…
So I holding my own, going with the flow and along comes the Celtic Tiger and waxing shops shoot up all over Dublin. Whole conversations are created around so and so in such and such a salon who is MARVELLOUS and she is booked up WEEKS in advance so make sure you give her plenty of notice before your holidays. I’m sitting there open mouthed, they are talking about some young one ripping the hair off their fanny likes she’s a film star. Of course I nodded in all the right places, did a bit of ooohing and ahhhing as they described landing strips, commando, heart shapes and even wrote down the name and phone number of the fanny ripper like I was ever going to go there.
Then I got fanny envy. I’d look down at my equivalent of a bowl cut and wonder what my friends fannys looked like with their paid for ‘do’s’. It’s not like you can say to even your closest friend ‘Drop your drawers and show me what all the fuss is about.’ I started to feel left out, like I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t part of the fabulous fanny pack. I caved in. I was taking it easy though, I wasn’t booking any appointment with the waxer to the stars. I was going local, small and low key. I had visions of the larger establishments having a tanoy to announce ‘Fanny wax in room 5, that’s fanny wax in room 5.’
The day duly arrived and I showered, conditioned and trimmed, I was not going in there making a show of myself and the waxer asking if she could sell my hair. To the tune of some pipe music she asked me to remove my lower garments and lie on the table and cover myself with a freshly laundered towel which I duly did. She was discreet, she kept her back to me and fussed over her cauldron of boiling wax. She seemed quite surprised when she lifted the towel to see I had not removed my knickers and with eyebrow raised she nodded in their direction. Blushing like a virgin on her wedding night I told her they were staying on and she could do the edges. After letting out a small sigh of condescension she asked me to bring my legs up and then let them flop open. This was worse than a smear test and I was paying money for this? She applied the wax with what looked like a large ice pop stick and I actually found it quite nice. It was warm and smooth and silky and felt lovely against my skin. I was relaxed, I was enjoying the experience. Her hands were warm and she moved with assurance. I could feel her rubbing the area with the strip, making sure she got excellent coverage over the still warm wax and she ripped. It was bad, real bad, but bearable. She did the other side, much less enjoyable but again, bearable. When she got to the undercarriage and started to rip that strip off I told her to stop, The FUCKING pain. I lept around the table like I was beating out a bush fire. When I finally recovered my dignity I told her that if I didn’t get my moneys worth of wax she could do my eyebrows but if she put any wax lower than my chin I’d deck her. I decided to forgo the cooling treatment as I beat a hasty retreat.
I’m almost glad people no longer flaunt their extravagances and no longer feel the need to tell one and all about their minge maintenance. I’m all about Fanuary, have been long before it was even invented. My friend and I are coma buddies, the idea introduced to us by an old school friend. Basically if ever we find ourselves in a situation whereby we can no longer dye our hair or pluck our eyebrows, she’ll groom me or I’ll groom her. She did mention her lady garden, I told her I thought the 70’s porn star look would suit her. We’re not currently speaking.
noelsters 