"Come on, Tanya," said Nina, a sixty-year-old Russian woman with dyed bright red hair. She waved me into the little waxing room at the back of the salon.
I looked around for a Tanya. No Tanya. Nina motioned impatiently. Me? I was Tanya?
I trotted cooperatively into the waxing room. I'd been empowered by my waxing experience a few weeks ago, and I'm bound to have to wear my bikini in Colombia, so I thought I'd make my life a bit easier and eliminate leg shaving for the near future.
"Um, what?" Nina was speaking to me in Russian, or was it English? Oh wait, I know. She's asking if I want a full leg wax.
"Yes. Full leg and bikini LINE." I emphasized line. "NO Brazilian. NO. Only line, here."
Bikini waxes have gotten complicated in the last decade, which is probably how long it's been since I had my bikini line waxed. Nowadays there are all kinds of variations on the bikini wax. And that's where I show my age, my uncoolness, my total lack of interest in trying new things, where I fall down squarely on the "Don't make it the vertical Hitler moustache* and don't even THINK about yanking it all off" side of things.
Nina was moving things along quickly and with a bit of sting. Smooth, rip. Smooth, rip. Then, I felt a spreading warmth where there wasn't supposed to be one.
"NO!" Not the moustache! But the wax...she'd already painted it on.
Nina looked confused. She knew her job. What was Tanya's problem?
I surveyed the waxy clump. Let's see. My choices are: Suffer through the moustache or pick at wax for weeks. Hell.
"Go ahead." I sighed for half a sec and then YOW!
And as if it weren't enough that Nina had put me through this, she then gave me a lecture.
"You pay good money, Tanya. I do it right."
She ripped the hair out by the roots from the other side.
Enough. No more waxing for this Tanya. I hereby announce my retirement from all future waxing, or at least all waxing above the knee.
*I co-opted this phrase. Not an original.