So, one of the more dreaded of deeds is done. Good lord. I cannot believe people go in for that on a regular basis.
My first difficulty was how to book it. What does one actually say? ‘Do you do Brazilians?’ Surely not. And is that even how one refers to it? Should one perhaps request ‘intimate waxing’ or some other polite euphemism? I simply didn’t know.
(I was reminded of an HILAAAArious student prank I once played, in the small hours of a morning, when I phoned a home moving company called Beaver Removals, and told them ‘I have a particularly troublesome beaver, I wonder if you could come and remove it for me?’ (How they must have laughed.) I wonder if that approach would serve me now?)
In the end, I found a beautician with an explicit price list and an email contact form, and thus the appointment was made.
And I presented myself today.
And while it was as painful as you would imagine such a procedure might be; it was actually less humiliating than I feared. Perhaps I am desensitised having birthed twins in the company of 10+ medical practitioners, but the matter-of-factness of the beautician made it strangely normal to be chatting away with no pants on.
It was the work of a mere half hour, and the lovely Justine assures me she has done a splendid job. It is almost a shame it won’t be appreciated by a wider audience, but don’t worry, I will not be posting before and after shots.
This would be my advice to readers considering anything of the sort:
1. Take some paracetemol before you go.
2. Take some tracky b’s to wear afterwards.
3. Before you book it, check that your partner finds the image below arousing. If not, you can save yourself considerable unpleasantness, and £28.