Almost There: The Hilarious Story Of My "Half" Bikini Wax
There are two kinds of people in the world: One kind that need no more than a half-an-hour intimation before a trip, and can just pack their bags in the blink of an eye and leave; and the other kind who need at least a good two-week notice to prepare for travel. I fall into the latter category. I need to be told well in advance, so I can cancel all my existing plans, and make appointments for all things grooming, from mani-pedi to waxing and face-cleaning, and whatnot. Basically, everything that I had been putting on the back-burner weekend after weekend, thanks to my laziness and well, the weather.
So, when it came to travelling to Bangalore last week, I shamelessly spent most of time shopping, and the leftover to get rid of every hair that was on my body.
All was well. All was bearable... and all was under control. Except for when the time came for the most dreaded - bikini wax! I wish, oh, how I wish it was a story with a happy ending, but alas, when is it ever?
It stated off well. And by "well," I mean, I was biting silently on the inside of my lips, discreetly letting out cries of pain, and swallowing them with teary eyes, as the beautician stripped off those stubborn curlies from my nether-parts. But suddenly, it all turned dark. No, I mean the light in front of my eyes. The wax had gotten stuck to the hair, and was as reluctant to come out as a kid not wanting to go to school on a Monday morning. Ouch!
She tried, and how! Once, twice, thrice... and I shed cries with every tug at the wax strip. Until the strip also got stuck to the hair like an obsessed lover does to the idea of ‘no’ meaning a ‘yes’. And that was my breaking point. Unable to endure any more pain, or the thought that the next thing coming out would be my very sore and red skin, I asked her to stop. No, not momentarily, but altogether. She was confused, but she obliged. Except, the thing with reka wax is that once it is on, and with a strip stuck to it, the only way out is to rip it off.
So I, once again, summed up all the courage I could, endured one more pull, and let my soul die for a few seconds. But, the wax wouldn't budge. It remained stuck to my tender vagina that had now seemingly become a battle field. My vulva had endured enough bloodshed, scars, cries, and sacrifices, and I just could not let myself go through it again. So, I asked her what I needed to do to just clean the leftover wax.
We tried a lot of things. Water – no. Cream – nada. Aloevera gel – nope. The only thing we hadn’t used was my very own tears that hadn’t stopped streaming down. But after 30 minutes of trying to clean it with whatever we could think of, I came back with the utmost soreness, and a half bikini wax.
I must admit, it felt weird, to... umm you know... have fish lips with a mustache over it. To feel half-smoothness, half-friction. It felt awkward for days but boy was the relief overpowering? And you’d think it was my first time, which it wasn’t, but yes, definitely the last. Safe to say, I shan’t be going back to it for a long time to come.
Image Source: Unsplash, Pexels