In the mornings, I throw on my game-face pretty quickly. I’ve been doing it for years… it doesn’t vary much. Fill in brows, rim eyes with black liner, a little colour on the cheeks, and some on the eyelids… maybe a bit of shimmer in the brow bone… a light dusting of powder, and then some lip gloss.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and feel… kinda… not right. Like there’s something missing.
Upon closer inspection, I sometimes realise my skin doesn’t look as bright, and I just need to
wash it exfoliate. I make a mental note to treat my skin right, and go the extra mile before bedtime.
Sometimes I take a closer look at my eyebrows and realise they need a bit of maintenance, which ain’t no thing… I whip out my excellent tweezers (Tweezerman, always – please trust me on this) and with a little plickedy-pluck here and there, I look normal again, even if I had to expel a few expletives that may conjure images of fornicating matriarchs – that’s my favourite swear, you know.
But then sometimes… my skin is dewy and fresh, and my brows are absolutely perfectly arched wings happiness over my shining eyes… something is still amiss. More powder, maybe? More gloss?!
And then I notice. I see the problem. I spy… the shadow. Right.
Enter: The Lady ‘Stache.
She’s a sneaky bastard because it’s not as if she grows back with brutal, prickly man-stubble. I mean, I don’t shave it off… though I think I might have tried that once, years ago when my white girlfriends were busy bleaching theirs – couldn’t have ended well – I’m pretty sure I’ve blocked that whole, sordid memory out of my head.
Every once in a while, when I feel shady, I just pull out a box of lady-wax I bought about a million years ago from my bathroom drawer. I remember being in the depilatory-section of the drugstore once, staring at the array of items for sale, for the purpose of removing unwanted hair, and finally chose one, with the least-annoying picture of a happily hairless lady on the front. I’m telling you, the ad-work on these products do not inspire a lot of confidence. For that, you must have a picture of aloe on the front. Apparently, aloe is the cure-all. It should be in toothpaste. And Ex-Lax. And baby food.
The product I chose promised to take care of ALL my unwanted fur, from armpit hair, to down-there hair, and it Wouldn’t! Hurt! At! All!
Sidenote: Everyone knows that when something sounds too good to be true, it probably is… right?
So, self-waxing hurts like a muther, yo. I do not recommend it.
I DO recommend you find yourself a professional hair-removing lady, preferably one from the former Soviet Union, since they don’t dilly-dally or chit-chat too much during the
torture appointment, and whose sad tales of cueing in the Siberian cold, in long lines for bread or shoes or tampons will make you feel like a stupid baby for crying while she rips hair out of your vadge, because clearly, she knows true hardship, and you are just spoiled and whiney, but also, now baby-smooth everywhere, and in only seven short minutes. She might even give you a hard candy on the way out – they’re the kind you’ll hate, but after said torture, you’ll be happy for the kindness. (Just pretend its a Jolly Rancher.)
She might also be kind enough to point out that your lady ‘stache reminds her of her twelve-year-old brother, Vlad’s, and would you like her to jus poot a leetle beet on daht paht?
You should say yes.
Or, you could just cut off two inches of the cold wax strips you’ve had for the past eight years or so in the bathroom drawer, firmly apply it to your upper lip, close your eyes, say a little prayer, and let ‘er rip. Then proceed to expel every single one of your favourite swear words at the top of your voice. Twice. (Cry if you have to – no one’s watching.)
Le sigh. It’s hard to be a smooth girl. Especially once your moustache starts growing in.
Endnote: If you’ve got a function to go to, especially the kind where you just might be photographed for posterity, like a wedding or something, give yourself at least 48 hours before waxing anything off your face, since puffy, sore, red spots might clash with your outfit. You can thank me later.
Got wax woes? Share.