I have been giving some thought lately to just why it is I pay someone $45 a month to pour hot wax on my hoo-haa, and pull hairs out of my va-jay-jay. I admit I prefer the 'clean' feel that I'm left with after my monthly French wax, but even I wouldn't put it on my list of top ten 'fun things to do'. Yet every month, I trot down to my local shopping area (I believe Americans call this "downtown" but I honestly don't know what that word is supposed to really mean), park behind the cake decorating shop and a sex toy store (the cake decorating shop is closer to my idea of pornography - sometimes I go in there to just look at the mouth-watering pieces of art they have on display, and marvel at the many colours of sprinkles that are available) and visit my beautician for my monthly wax. She is pretty much the only beautician I've ever known, and by her own admission she's not a 'posh' beautician. We compare stories of partners, kids (she has a step son), houses, Tupperware (a shared passion), friends, news, families, joys and heartaches. And I believe this is where the value lies for me.
I could trim the ladyparts with a delicate little razor, or go to - as she calls it - a 'posh' beautician where they wear white coats and aren't allowed to talk to the customer unless the customer intiates the conversation. But, as my fabulous beauty therapist says, "Fuck that"!!! Because it is precisely this banter, this friendship and mutual sharing of burdens which takes me back there month after month, and is the reason I won't go to any other beautician.
Take this morning for instance. Since my last post 2 nights ago I've been swinging like a pendulum between immense sadness and overwhelming fury. Last night and this morning I was so angry at the soon-to-be-ex. It's almost 2 months since he told me he was leaving our marriage, and while he has moved to the couch, he still hasn't left our house and it's driving me insane. I can't move on, I can't grieve, I can't begin the next stage of my life because he's still THERE. And it hurts so much to see him every weekend, every night, and know I can't give him a hug, I can't rest my head on his lap while we're watching TV, I can't ask him for help or advice or open my heart to him at all. I feel trapped in the initial pain of being left after 17 years of marriage, and until I actually have been left, I can't move past that. I never knew limbo hurt so much.
As I got into the car this morning to head to my monthly wax appointment, the anger and hurt was so strong it was almost seeping from my pores. And then when I walked in for my appointment, my gorgeous beautician who loves to say the F word as much as I do, asked "So how is the bastard, has he left yet?" and immediately I was not alone. I had camaraderie, comradeship, I had someone who, by nature of the beautician/client relationship, was on MY side. I get to whinge and bitch to her and in return she offers me validation and acceptance.
So our banter continues through the 'hot wax torture' as I fondly refer to it, and by the time I leave the salon half an hour later, my journey to my car is significantly lighter than the journey from it earlier in the morning. I feel less alienated, less unsure and a hell of a lot less scared about the future, because there are people who have been through it and survived, and I will be one of them.
My questions about why I spend $45 to undergo sadistic rituals were answered today. I go because of the friendship that my $45 buys me. Half an hour of therapy with a fabulous looking hoo-haa to go with it. Even though my beautician's the only one that sees the lady parts these days, I still think it's $45 well spent.
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