Waxing Lyrical

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This evening’s post is going to be rather bald, like other bits of me.

I had a mobile beauty therapist come to my house today and there was a bit of a mix up, instead of a high bikini line wax I had a Brazilian and I didn’t really know how to tell her to stop but when she asked me to get on all fours I knew it wasn’t going to end well.  What made it worse was the new neighbours popped by for tea, invited spontaneously by Simon who had been out with the girls. Sienna flings the living room door open and, well, Simon practically hurls the poor brain surgeon (our hot new neighbour) to the floor to stop him seeing me, and Dr Nick was there, of course, straining to catch a glimpse. Mercifully I was angled north so all they got was me dressed up top, grimacing, with a stranger fannying around (not quite the term given, what she was working on) at the back of my naked rump.

And the humiliation continued with Simon inviting me to join them all for tea at the picnic table outside when I’d ‘cleaned up’. The cherry on the cake was he’d made a cuppa for the beautician too so everyone got to make small talk with someone who had more recent and intimate knowledge of my undercarriage than my own husband.

I tried to joke my way out of the situation by saying, “I now know why hemlines fall as you get older, they follow the pubic hair growth down your legs.  I went for a high bikini wax and was startled when she waxed between my knees.” Ahaha. Dr Nick choked on his tea and Simon moved the topic to something mind-numbing: cycling.

I have so much to tell you, including Mandy and me going glass blowing – which was extraordinary. I’m not even going to hint.

I’m going back to sit on my rubber ring. Because that’s how it feels. Simon is in shock and already on the whisky. He’s so horrible, he said he thinks he’s got mild PTSD from being married to me, not from going to Afghanistan. And I was the one HAVING the wax. Anyway, I showed him my fanny after the neighbours had left and he wasn’t even complimentary. He said, “You look like a plucked chicken.”  So I told him he could go back to choking his own after comments like that.  I’m on strike. This old bird is not getting pluck again. Ever.

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