If there is one thing about being a woman I hate most, it’s shaving my legs. I despise it. It is an absolute pain in the behind.
When I first started shaving my legs I was in sixth grade. I was sitting in the bathtub, staring into space, when out of nowhere I up and decided I was going to shave my legs.
So, I found my mom’s razor and went to work.
I did get both legs shaved, but not without thousands of tiny scrapes and gashes. My legs looked like they’d been dragged through a briar patch and shot with thousands of tiny BBs.
For some reason, and to this day I couldn’t tell you why, I also shaved an arm during that particular evening. I probably don’t need to tell you that it wasn’t a pretty sight. My arm itched for weeks after and I am convinced that the hair on one arm is still darker than the hair on the other.
Since I dislike shaving so much, I recently decided that I would give waxing them a go. I have my eyebrows done so I assumed, wrongly I might add, that my legs wouldn’t hurt near as much as my brow line.
I went out and paid a fortune for a really nice waxing set. The directions said that in order to remove the maximum amount of hair, it had to be fairly long. I obliged, if only because I was thrilled to have an excuse to neglect my shaving duties for awhile.
After a week, my legs looked like they’d been taking testosterone injections. If I’d let them go any longer the hair would have probably migrated to my chest.
And wouldn’t that be sexy?
I got out my super fancy waxing kit, plugged in the warmer and waited. Once it was hot enough and ready to go, I set to work.
I took the little popsicle stick smearing doohickey out of the wax and gave my leg a good smear, making sure to get coverage enough that I wouldn’t have to repeat the process.
I laid down my little cotton strip, smoothed it over the wax and waited the required sixty seconds before the pull.
I grabbed the edge and braced myself. Not only did I look like a man, but anticipating the pain was making me sweat like one.
I counted to three, took a deep breath and…nothing. I couldn’t do it.
I tried again, only this time I counted to five. Still, I couldn’t do it.
I tried yet again, this time counting to ten. I took another deep breath and finally, I pulled.
Then, I screamed.
I’m not talking a squeak or a squeal, I’m talking full on roller coaster, horror movie, freak out scream.
In my haste, while jumping around and hollering words that would have my momma in a fit, I’d forgotten the wax heater was laying on the edge of the cabinet.
My arm bumped it and wax went flying.
It splattered up my legs, got between my toes and some even flew in my hair. The floor was positively covered.
There I stood, covered in goo, a hairy wax strip in my hand, my feet congealing to the floor, all thanks to my very own ignorance.
I immediately took action. Unfortunately, taking action meant walking. With every step I took, it sounded like I was walking across a large sheet of fly paper.
I grabbed the box and reached in to find the bottle of wax remover that was supposed to come with the kit. I pulled it out and, what do you know? It was the size of peanut and not nearly big enough to clean up the mess I’d made.
My only option was hot water.
It took me almost an hour to pick the wax off of my legs. I never got the glob that landed in my hair so I had to use a pair of scissors to cut it out. I now have a very attractive hair horn sticking out of the side of my head.
Am I a professional, or what?
Needless to say, I’ll be sticking to shaving from here on out. I didn’t much enjoy waxing. Even though the hair grows back slower that way, the emotional scarring left behind from the pain of the experience is enough for me to just say no.
Until next week, remember: A package of plastic razors will run you about 3.99. Twenty years of counseling will cost you thousands. All this and you still might end up needing skin grafts. Is it worth it?
Mandi Hayes-Spencer is a columnist for The Greenup County Beacon and author of the upcoming series The Crantz Chronicles. She lives in Flatwoods, Kentucky with her husband and son.