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.)