“Fast and easy,” said the box.
“It will save you so much money,” said my debit card.
“Absolutely, under no circumstances, should you do it yourself,” said the internet.
But since when do I listen to the internet?
Since starting grad school and pretty much ruining the rest of my financial life with approximately $1,000,000 in student loans, I have become quite the penny pincher. I buy food that is about to expire because it is on sale. I dye my own hair. I taught myself how to wax my own eyebrows, which takes a very specific amount of dexterity and self-loathing.
And then, once I realized that ripping hair out of my own face was saving me about $25 every six weeks, I decided it would be wise to take my new found talent down under, where a waxing usually costs about $80 (that’s at least ten drinks, for those of you who do your taxes in alcoholic terms). Am I going to gross you out talking about my bikini line? Well, then you should probably leave.
Let’s just say, things got …. messy.
The directions that came with my little pot of wax recommended that the victim (me) should trim hair significantly before applying the wax. Here, I made my first mistake. I used little eyebrow scissors that are sharp enough to cut off a human finger, thinking that it would make for fast trimming. All it made was a terrific amount of tiny cuts. That bled. A lot. Apparently, there is a ton of blood flow to the lady bits, and most of it was on display, soaking wads of toilet paper (that I stole from a public bathroom).
I should have stopped there, right? Or at least taken a vodka break?
My bathroom looked like a commercial break from CSI, and I was getting dizzy from the blood loss. But the wax was already heated and I thought the pain couldn’t get much worse. Heated wax on a bunch of microscopic cuts? On the most sensitive area of my body? Ha! Worth it to save $80.
I was happily surprised at how easy the waxing was. I applied the wax in thick layers, ignoring the screaming pain and sparkles I saw when I closed my eyes. Then, I counted to three, held my breath, and r-r-r-r-ripped! “Wow,” I thought. “I’m an expert. I could open a business.” I did a cute little patch in just five minutes.
Then the adrenaline stopped working.
Sweat started dripping into my eyes, my hands were shaking, my knees locked, and my bikini line radiated with raw pain. Sounds fun, right? I would have stopped then and there, but through my haze of nausea, I saw that I still had one thick strip of wax, waiting for ripping, drying onto my skin. I seriously thought about calling an ambulance.
I should have done a band-aid maneuver. I should have bitten le bullet, taken one for the team, “been a man” about it. But that didn’t make any sense in my delirium. Instead, I picked one of the corners and slowly, tremulously pulled, plucking the hairs out one by one, reopening the tiny cuts, and spiraling into what can only be described as blinding pain. Because I actually went blind for a few minutes after crying and throwing up a little.
I will spare you some of the more gruesome details, but I’m sure you can use your imagination. Remember the part in Avatar when all the blue horses were on fire? Yeah, it was something like that.
Some things cost that much money for a reason. Don’t put yourself at risk for a heart attack by doing dangerous things to yourself just so you can save money. Instead, let things go wild down there. And if anyone gives you a hard time about it, send them to me.
I still have a whole pot of wax left over.