Spring is here, and I just can't help but pen a little ode for the season:
You've kept me snuggly and warm all winter, and I won't deny I like the way you riffle gently in the breeze, and even hold my socks up, but it is high time for me to move on. It is time to embrace the new season, and bid adieu to the old: it is time to wax my legs.
More accurately, to pay someone else to do it for me.
It must be some sort of perverse cosmic joke that every single aesthetician in Calgary is Vietnamese. Frankly, I'm not a huge fan of having someone pour hot wax on my limbs and rip it off in the first place, but to have the tiniest, most hair-free and naturally flawless people on earth do it is just adding insult to injury.
'Oooh, you have so many stretch mark! What happen?' *rip*
'Um, thanks for noticing. I had two kids.'
'Oh. I gain fifty-two pound with my youngest baby and I have no stretch mark. Did doctor say what wrong with you?' *rip*
'Just my, uh, genetics I guess.'
At this point she was kind enough to change the subject to lighten the mood a bit:
'Ha ha, look at this! So much hair on the strip! I have to use lots of strip for you.'
Ha. Ha ha ha. Yes, I suffer from a unique confluence of unfortunately hairy genetics, coupled with a rather large expanse of thigh. Lots of strip for me, thanks. My ancestors had to stay warm in the winter. Naturally I didn't say that, not because I didn't want to, but because Mary was already telling me how she doesn't grow leg hair - none at all. Or arm hair, or underarm hair, or facial hair. And she didn't mention it, but I'll bet you a nickel she doesn't grow the occasional obscenely long Scottish eyebrow hair, either.
And then I had to ask her to please wax my toe hair before she finished.
And at the end of it all, injury upon heaping frigging injury, I did not get to wish her a friendly 'fuck you!' as I walked out the door. Instead, I left Mary a huge tip. Because I am sincerely hopeful that silence can be bought.