10:30: Consume 2 painkillers in wrongful hope that they will dull pain.
11:00: Enter salon
11:01: Think “I could leave now. I don’t have to do this. I could grow a big bush.”
NB: I have to get waxes because I model, and have done since 16, so I’ve never seen it reach it’s full potential. One day.
The main choices offered are Hollywood (pre-pubescent all-off) or Brazilian (weird landing strip). The only person I know whose hair naturally grows in funny, neat rectangles is actually my boyfriend.
11:05: “Hello Miss Pearson. Come on downstairs.” Enter tiny, harshly-lit room, remove all lower clothing
NB: Good idea not to wear an all-in-one, especially if you’re braless. That information was hard-earnt.
11:06: “So Miss Pearson, how much would you like off today?” Cue yourself and a stranger staring at your vagina, discussing shapes and sizes as if choosing material for a curtain.
11:07: Application of searing hot wax to your most delicate of areas. A 15 second respite whilst it cools. The tension between yourself and the waxer as they try to second-guess when you’re going to tense up, so that they can rip it off before you do.
11:08: “So Miss Pearson. Going anywhere nice for your holidays?”
“Well actually, I’m thinking about...” YYEEEEOOOOOGGGHHHH! “Going away later in the....
"YYEEEAAAOOOWWWGHHHH BITCH! “year as it might be cheap...” AAAAAAAHHHHH! “er.”
11:20: All done. Almost. “Shall we do your bottom area as well then? “Um * cough, look around, assume neutral face * yes please.”
Turn over on all fours, arse in air, at mercy of molten wax-wielding woman. Question life.
11:30: Thank woman, pay £25+ and tip her for inflicting you with 45 minutes of thoroughly unenjoyable pain. Walk around all day, slightly off-gait. Take care when peeing.