Around fifteen years ago, I was in the throes of an early romance, and had just returned from a summer abroad when my phone buzzed: “drinks, tonight — at yours?” I said yes, then promptly decided it was time for a preparatory wax after a long hiatus ahead of what would clearly be a clothes off situation.
My usual spot was full, so I booked in to a local salon thinking “how bad can it be?” Very bad indeed, it transpired. They popped a wax roller in a kettle — an actual kettle — let it heat a little but not quite enough, then dragged the semi-soft wax across my skin before tugging away, leaving me the desired bald, sure, but also bruised. I managed three such sections before I announced that I urgently needed to leave and couldn’t complete the wax. I will leave your imagination to complete the picture; suffice to say I kept the lights decidedly off that night.
