I’ve just returned from my monthly visit to my beautician to get waxed. Sigh. This is definitely not a post about the joys of waxing – (although some commentary at some point about my 17 year relationship with hot wax and spatulas, including what I like to call ‘My-Bali-Bikini-Waxing-Experience’ might not be a bad idea) – it’s more a musing about all things beauty related.
Last month I had to time my waxing appointment around a car service, work and dinner with my father. It was all rather tricky. The interesting thing about it was that I found myself telling the mechanic (when I requested to bring the car in later than he’d asked me to) that I had a doctor’s appointment to go to. And when I asked dad to be my chauffeur for half the day I didn’t mention the waxing appointment to him either. When a girlfriend rang for a chat in the middle of all these intricate machinations I waxed (sorry, couldn’t help it) lyrical to her about what a hard time I was having fitting everything in, including my wax. Why was it okay to tell her and not the two hims?
I could very well just imagine the eye-rolling I would have received from dad if he’d known he’d spent half the day and a tank of petrol doing my errands so I could get all the God-given hairs on my body ripped out in their thousands. Not to mention the eye-rolling from the mechanic (who’s walls are covered with smooth-skinned, mostly naked women who I’m quite sure were born that way – with no body hair, shiny red pouting lips and two perfectly round 400 cc breasts). So I didn’t tell them obviously. Being smooth skinned with lustrous hair and long sweeping eyelashes shouldn’t require any effort. It’s something that doesn’t need to be thought through and budgeted for; it just is, right?
Alex Kuczynski, in her new book, Beauty Junkies writes:
…Young women …felt compelled to be physically perfect and have great hair and get good grades and be admired for their intelligence and their poise and their social skills, and yet appear as if these exertions required no effort whatsoever. (p269)
Sigh. Next time I’m going to call the mechanic, book in the car at the time I need it booked in, tell him that my mons pubis requires emergency depilatory work, and that my carburetor will just have to wait it’s turn.