The first time I met my French penfriend I think I was 14 (or so), she was 15, and what struck me most about her was the fact that she went to the beautician’s to get her legs waxed. At my age, and in my family it was completely unheard of that a ‘child’ a) visit a beautician or b) do anything to her legs.
Over in France, land of sophisticated elegance, it was completely the norm. I know she had dark hair, but still, I don’t remember caring much about the state of my legs although I think I pinched my dad’s razor to do my armpits. It’s all a bit hazy.
Since then, I’ve visited a couple of beauticians who have basically scolded me for arriving with legs where the hairs were either too long, or too short. They also told me that the more you wax, the easier it gets. Obviously, if you start in your early teens, by the time you’re an adult you just have to take out the box of wax for the hairs to take fright and jump out of their sockets.
Being Brit though, I had none of the advantages of early leg-waxing, and the result is reinforced concrete on my legs. I’ve been having another bash this morning with poor results as usual, and it reminded me of a post I made back in 2006, so rather than describe the process all over again, here is a typical tale of unrelenting disappointment.
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What was the highlight of my weekend? Would you believe me if I told you it was waxing my legs? No? Well, you'd be right, it wasn't. However, I can't tell you what the highlight was as this is a family show so I'll tell you about waxing my legs instead.
I dream of having legs so smooth they positively shine; not quite like soldiers' boots, but definitely with an expensive sheen. And brown. Unfortunately, the reinforced concrete follicles of the hairs on my legs would defy the most sadistic waxer, and waxing becomes a fight to the death, my legs a bloody war zone.
So why go through all that? I hear you cry. Well, I don't usually. I just cut the buggers down with a razor and be done with them. But you just don't get the same effect, and, being the ever-optimistic little soul that I am, sometimes I am filled with an all-encompassing desire to 'have another go'. I know, in my heart of hearts that it's a pointless undertaking. Professional beauticians have tried and failed to render my legs as smooth and hairless as a baby's botty and told me that either the hairs were too long or too short or that the moon was not in the ascendency or that pigs might fly.
BUT, I am not to be beaten. I don't like being thwarted, especially by a couple of two-bit hairy calves. Yesterday, thus, I took out my brandy-new box of Veet wax strips and got down to business. For the squeamish amongst you, I will not dwell on the excruciating pain of having one's hairs ripped out of one's legs leaving raw, red points of blood above my ankles. Examining the strips of wax, I saw with satisfaction a large number of little dark waifs, their follicles still attached after being forcibly removed from their anchorage.
Looking back down at my legs, however, I was aghast to see absolutely tons who had defied death and were, not so much clinging on for dear life, but battened down in one last great showdown! Waxing was useless. The hairs just slipped through laughing and jeering and I had to resort to heavy artillery. Tweezers. HA! You VILL surrender!!!
So, picture me sitting on my dining room chair, in the sun, plucking away at recalcitrant leg hairs when I could have been doing any number of interesting, educational, physical, relaxing activities. I did sort of win. The hairs could not resist the tweezers. It's strange though, as you remove one series of visible hairs, you see another layer of slightly blonder, finer ones. And when you attack those, you see another layer of still blonder, finer ones. Where will it end? I gave up on the finer, blonder ones. I was losing the will to live.
Was it worth it? Was my victory outright?
Er, no. Back to the drawing board.