“How, oh lordy, how did it go?”
I’m cycling back home last Friday around noon when I receive this sms from friend # 4. I text back “It woz hella devilish woman!” (yes this particular friend and I do actually talk and text like this) and throw my mobile back in my bag. Sigh. Lordy indeed. But hey, sunny side up: I can still bear the pressure of the bike saddle, do my own cycling and even text messages at the same time so….. how bad can the trauma be?

Allow me to recount..

Dominga, it turned out, is an attractive thirty-something woman who could never be my friend – she doesn’t like chocolate (while sitting in her waiting room aka living room I spotted a rather large chocolate Easter bunny AND a chocolate Santa – it’s september!) and looks nothing like my vision of her in my dream although, admittedly, chances of that happening were quite slight. She was wearing designer glasses, no make–up and her hair tied back loosely in a bun (I was too busy with breathing properly to notice what she had tied it back with).
Although I was able to keep it down to one shriek I think it’s safe to say this was the most physically distressing experience I’ve ever gone through. Of course I’ve had my average share of shitty bicycle, scooter and snowboarding smash-ups and what not but these accidents spared me somewhat by consisting of a single and sudden impact. One moment everything’s primrose & peaches the next you find yourself lying bruised and scattered somewhere in some degree of agony wondering what the hell hit you. But then – mercifully – recovery kicks in: you get up or get down and happily skip away to do whatever is it you were doing.
This however was like the result of a half pipe miscalculation stuck in repeat mode. It went on for 45 minutes and every time she smeared a streak of the hot, caramel coloured wax on me I knew what was coming and started panting uncontrollably (or perhaps not so uncontrolled as at some point she actually asked “Do you do yoga?”. No-one has ever asked me this before and it doesn’t surprise me nor would it anyone who knows me I think).  I felt a bit like a woman in labor, puffing away bravely on a bench covered with white towels and a woman in a white doctors coat with latex gloves on taking a particular interest in my privates. Every time she was about to yank the cooled down wax off my skin I would hold my breath, eyes wide, stiffen my abs and spout out my remaining breath when it was over. More often than not she would snort at my reflexes. Were it not for the fact I was positive of her amiable intentions and that it might be illegal to do so,  I would have smacked her senseless with that spatula of hers.

What I did find very sympathetic was that she had put on some background music. But not just any music, nooo. The man comforting me with his lulling voice and acoustic beachy tunes was nobody less than Hawaiian singer-songwriter aka surfer dude Jack Johnson. Despite the circumstances I was able relax and distract myself somewhat and I was just about to accept his coconut cocktail and surrender myself utterly to him until he sang the following verse:


 “Well if I was in your position
I’d put down all my ammunition
But Lord knows that I’m not you
and if I was I wouldn’t be so cruel
cause waitin’ on love ain’t so easy to do”

And with that I was painfully reminded of my position and that indeed he’s not me. In fact no-one is. I’m me and daaamn how it hurts..  Have fun beneath that coconut tree, Jack. I hope one falls on your head. If you were in my position, which you are quite rightly said not, you would definitely want your ammunition, trust me dude.

Hard times returned once more and just when I thought it was all over she asked me to turn over on my belly. I did so obediently, not knowing quite what to expect at this point. Then she told me to spread my cheeks.
All I can say is I went through the 5 stages of grief in a heartbeat and thought of Lenny – It ain’t over till it’s over – Kravitz as I wearily did what I was told. Then I saw the absurdity of the situation and giggled myself through the remainder of the session in a stupor.

So..Would you recommend it?

Well..reminiscing this whole experience is hardly gratifying to me but this image of my naked giggling self lying on my stomach whilst holding my butt cheeks apart while a woman smears hot wax in my ass crack is really the icing on the sour cake, so to speak..
But NO! I’m savin’ up for permanent hair removal !! Although to be fair I have to say that this costumer is very pleased with the result, Miss Dominga did an excellent job. I did go for the martini glass (simply calling it ‘triangle’ to avoid any odd situations) and she even used tweezers to perfect it into an impeccable isosceles triangle: Einstein would have been proud of us.
But hey gals, whatever you do: make sure you do it primarily for yourself cause we all know what the real deal is ;-D

Een gedachte over “THE BRAZ WAX III

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