Image: Sex and the City/HBO
After traipsing around Europe for two months, I decided I needed a haircut (ahem) before I returned home to Australia.
It had nothing to do with a build-up of split ends. Let’s just say, maintaining my southern region throughout my travels had gone from being a walk in the park to a trek through an overgrown, out-of-control forest.
With my funds running low, I opted for a cheap waxing salon. Why I felt it would be beneficial to skimp on a beauty therapist, rather than a restaurant that night, is beyond me.
However, as I now know, anything involving hot wax and your lady parts is not something to be stingy about. It’s just not worth it.
Fast-forward half an hour and there I was: legs splayed, semi-bald, and wondering where I went wrong in life to find myself in this situation.
I probably should have left the salon the first time the beauty therapist burned the bright blue wax. Or maybe the second time. Or maybe when I noticed her sweating as she surveyed the area she was about to devastate (despite it being the middle of winter).
Like ignoring the telltale signs of a bad relationship, I let the little things go. 'Maybe she’s just bad at setting the right time on the microwave', I reasoned with myself. 'Maybe she’s just a little nervous because it’s her first day.' How could I have possibly known I was about to subject my lady bits to excruciating Brazilian torture?
Leaving would have been wise, but the mental preparation required to get me onto the table in the first place was far too much to endure again at another salon. So I chose to tough it out, and the alarm bells began ringing as soon as she whipped off the first strip. (Post continues after gallery.)
I’m not silly; of course applying a hot substance to the most sensitive part of your body is meant to hurt. But there’s also a common — or so I thought — technique that’s used to minimise the amount of pain felt.
Waxing hurts a whole lot less when the strip is torn off in one quick swipe, with pressure applied afterwards to comfort the area. Some might say a little love is involved; the beauty therapist can feel your pain and does their best to make it as painless as possible.
But in this Brazilian wax, there was no love. There was no pain minimisation. There was nothing resembling any kind of technique a qualified beauty therapist in the history of the world had practiced, ever.
All I could make out was an obvious Brazilian rookie, randomly applying wax to my garden then sheepishly pulling it off with little success while I winced and fought back tears. The therapist could see my discomfort and kept apologising.
I would have just continued fighting through the awful treatment, but then something happened. Something very bad.
For an unknown reason, one strip of wax wouldn’t come off. It just wouldn’t budge. Strip after strip, the therapist pulled and tore at the same section to no avail. It hurt like hell.
It was at precisely this point, with pain that felt as if single hairs were being plucked out of my pubic region one by one, that I decided enough was enough. (Post continues after video.)
With tiny bits of blue wax still attached to my poor southern region, I got dressed and stormed the hell out of there… all the way to the cash register, where I demanded that I would pay only half the cost of the service. Then I left, clutching my lady parts and what remained of my dignity as I hobbled down a busy London street.
The consequences of this kind of life choice are pretty long-lasting. I spent a fun few hours in my hotel bathroom later that evening, doing the best I could to tidy the remainder of my garden, which looked like it had been butchered by a blindfolded, axe-wielding landscaper.
Needless to say, it was a long time before I ever faced a dreaded Brazilian again. And even now, the sight of bright blue wax still makes me wince.
Have you ever had a beauty treatment gone wrong? Tell us everything.