Blimey: three homes and two jobs, but only one blog. You read it here first.
First, imagine we’re having this conversation after a bottle of rather fine French red wine; a Gigondas, for instance (but if you're buying I'd like a Chateauneuf-du-Pape). We’ve both become a little uninhibited and I’m not sure how the conversation starts, but anyway it moves south.
Bikini wax. Never had one; never wanted to have one. Few reasons really: I am not offended by my body hair (or other people’s for that matter); I’ve had my legs waxed a couple of times and it hurt, a lot; I’ve always thought the expression “knickers moustache” rather sweet; I’m not sure, but fear a bikini wax may well betray the sisterhood; I’m deeply suspicious of men who like their ladies “groomed”; I prefer to save the experience of having an underpaid (and possibly under-trained) stranger poking around when I’ve got my pants off for my smear test… I guess I’ve never thought it worth paying money for something I’m not going to enjoy.
I’ve – of course – had a go at topiary. I’ve lived to regret slapdash application of depilatory cream. I’ve experienced nasty razor rash. In the end, I bought a bikini with boy-short bottoms and called it a day. I wonder if this is another side effect of my happy-pill-induced little miss perfect routine, but suddenly clothes and presentation seem more important. Recently, I’ve become rather too attached to my tweezers.
So I’m curious. I talk to an old friend who says – to my utmost surprise – that she gets a wax regularly and that it is, and I quote, “a pleasure-pain paradox”. My jaw hits the ground when she tells me that her mother gets a Brazilian.
I’m used to being in the dark about lady maintenance – my mum taught me about soap, a hot wet flannel, clean nails, combed hair and toothpaste, and to be honest I ditched the bit about soap. Everything else got filed away as a conspicuous consumption/patriarchal oppression ploy to get me to be paranoid about my body. This, I like to think, has served me well. No femfresh for me – the mere thought of perfumed wipes and intimate deodorant spray is likely to make me want to burn Boots to the ground in rage. No running to the bathroom to retouch my makeup before breakfast. No shame about my body’s functions.
And yet…and yet…
I actually really like smooth, soft legs. I love sliding into clean sheets with newly hairless pins – it feels extra naked, extra decadent. Also, I appreciate that if I want anyone (TA I mean you!) to spend a long time face first, it’s probably more inviting to minimise the amount of barbed wire security fencing.
I feel as though I need some proper tools for decision making – not an article in a woman’s magazine; not propaganda from either side of the fence.