My bikini line has gone to rack and ruin since I developed tendonitis in my hip.
Wielding hot wax while turning myself into a human pretzel has been off the agenda.
My lady garden has started to resemble the illustrations in the copy of The Joy of Sex that I furtively ordered from Doubleday Book Club when I was 15 in one of those do-a-deal-with-the-devil five-books-for-99-cents offers.
I suspect they honeypotted thousands of teens the same way.
Anyhoo, as I am in full-on beach holiday prep mode, I went to the beautician during yesterday’s lunch break for assistance.
My beautician is a perfectionist, which is both a blessing and a curse when it comes to depilating your nethers.
As I lay spreadeagled in a paper g-string she gave me three options: a bikini wax, an extended G or a Brazilian.
Recalling the wine list rule of choosing the second cheapest one, I went for an extended G. I think it stands for extended G-string hair removal … or extended Geeeeeee that really freaking hurts.
Being a perfectionist, the beautician was intent on making sure the hair removal was even on each side.
She’d riiiiiiiip the wax off, then stand back to examine her work, shake her head and riiiiiiiip again. Over and over and over.
Strewth almighty! It was excruciating.
Just when I thought she was finally satisfied she started brandishing a pair of tweezers and plucking the hairs individually.
Jaysus on a jumping stick! Sweet mercy, please stop!
Finally she did and I hobbled home.
Last night I cracked out a colour kit from my hairdresser to do my very grey part-line. That was way less painful and surprisingly effective. Totes happy with the results.
Now I’m counting down to taking off from arctic Sydney!
Song of the day: REM “Everybody hurts”
housegoeshome 
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