I believe myself to be a fine balance between parsimony and extravagance.  I don’t mind spending a little more for quality, but I am also a dedicated do-it-yourselfer.  WIth the exception of the indulgence of a decadent pedicure or a facial from time to time, one area that I have been fairly committed to, in meeting my own needs, has been personal grooming.

Taming the lion, if you will.

Most of the time, this has been a gloriously successful endeavour, ending with myself, mirror at my feet, proudly examining the transformation.

Enter Hot Wax.

Years ago, Hot Wax entered the picture.  I had been at an event filled with bikini-clad friends and, as only women can do without risking a right hook to the jaw, commented on the smoothness of my friend’s bikini line.

“Hot wax!” she whispered conspiratorially, “Then deodorant every morning.  No bumps!”

Women gathered around, sensing big news.  We all gasped! “No way!  It’s that easy??”

“Yesss!” she hissed,  “I asked a….STRIPPER!!!”

I instantly committed this nugget of personal-grooming gold to memory and the next chance I got, I ran out to buy a professional hot wax system from a salon.

One is only as good as one’s tools, after all.

At that time, I was a SINK (single income, no kids) and I was living on the main floor of my house, while renting out the upstairs to a tenant.  I had the freedom to spend an entire morning on self-indulgence and decided that I would try it out as soon as I got home.  I was dying for a coffee but I didn’t want to bother waiting to brew a new pot, so I stuck a mug in the microwave to heat it up.

Once the wax was hot, I stripped off my dressing gown and set to my task.  The first strip made my eyes water and my knees almost gave out.

Good Lord!  What had I started?

I applied the wax again, ready to attempt the second strip, watching a dribble of wax on the floor. I braced myself and ripped.  Inexplicably, the wax remained;  the long sticky rectangle was completely stuck to my skin, imbedded with hair and cooling rapidly.

Crap.

I tried another strip, to try and pull it off.  Nothing.  What to do?

Brainstorm!  I would add another layer of hot wax to the existing strip, thereby warming the stuck wax and allowing it to release.  I was in a full sweat at this point, and braced myself for the next attempt at removal.  I was rapidly learning that trying to pull one’s own hair out by the root was an extremely painful proposition.  What was I thinking?

RIP!!

After the nausea passed and the stars behind my closed eyes began to fade, I tentatively examined the result of my last round of torture.  A solid 50% of the wax remained, but the other 50% had come cleanly away.  This glimmer of success re-energized me!  I could do this.

But first, I needed caffeine.

My home, at the time, was a 1940s Georgian Revival and there was an abutting driveway between it and the next door neighbour.  Their kitchen window was directly across from mine and we often waved at one another, while washing dishes in the sink.

Knowing they would have a clear view of me, I duck walked out of the bathroom, down the hall, and across the kitchen floor.  I reached up to retrieve my coffee from the microwave and pivoted around, still squatting.

CRACK!

One of my knees connected solidly with the corner of the stove and I keeled over, dumping the coffee all over myself and landing flatly on my rear end.  I burst into tears.  This was not going well.  The pain in my knee was overwhelming and it took me several minutes before I could even think of attempting to stand up.

When I finally felt the pain begin to subside, I gripped the stove and tried to lift my body without putting pressure on my knee.  It was at this point that I discovered that, thanks to the remaining strip of wax on my Never-Neverland, I was firmly and inextricably stuck to the floor.

I had visions of gorgeous firefighters arriving to find me in a couple of days, sitting in a puddle of coffee and tears, stuck to my kitchen floor.  It wasn’t a pretty picture.  I was determined to free myself.

I spied the nearest cupboard and found my glimmer of hope.  A big bottle of extra-virgin olive oil.  (No, folks, the irony was not lost on me.)  I poured a puddle in my lap and was gradually able to pry one cheek and then the other off of the floor.   I duck-walked, much less energetically, back to the bathroom and attempted to clean up the wreckage.

Wiping tears, it occurred to me that it would make a funny story some day.  I hope it did.

In closing, an ode to the nether regions that I found on the web.

Love Your Vagina!

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