The Waxman Cometh

The road to hell is paved with lousy estheticians.

Not like they're all just lying around and you drive over them in your handbasket on your way down, but more like they're standing along the shoulders, slathering you in too-hot wax and not pulling your skin tight enough before they rip out your hair in the wrong direction so it doesn't really work very well and they have to do it over again in the same place with more boiling wax.

So maybe "paved" wasn't exactly the right term, but I guess that's the risk you run when paraphrasing while under the influence of a freshly-scalded vuvuzela. And yes, I - or more specifically, my legs and bikini area - recently suffered an unfortunate run-in with a lousy esthetician. I'd call her the Butcher of Hanoi, but apparently that one's already taken.

At least she didn't ask about my stretch marks.

Not sure how it all started, but I was visiting some friends this weekend and somehow - beverages were had, things got out of hand - we ended up sitting around someone's kitchen table trying out hair removal devices. (Also butt cheek quarters, but that's a different story.) As one might expect, the painless devices didn't work very well, while the more sadistic ones worked like a hot damn. With great and possibly booze-induced wisdom, I boldly claimed that waxing was the ONLY hair removal option that successfully balanced pain, results and cost-effectiveness.

Given today's events, it is clear that I invoked some form of negative depilatory karma with my audacious statement.

But I guess that's the risk you run when hanging out with a bunch of thirtysomething ladies while under the influence of homemade kahlua.