Waxing Poetic

This is not one of the deeper subjects in life, but it intrigues me, nonetheless. It’s always something I’ve heard about, something a lot of people do. Some people say it’s worth it — the time, the expense, the sacrifice. Others vow never to do it again only to keep doing it. Others really vow never to do it again, and I can tell they’re traumatized. For life. I can’t say I’ve had the desire. I’ve only been curious, and only to the point of taking a mental survey. Who’s more likely to do it? Who’d never consider doing it in a million years? What’s the demographic? I’d like to research the psychology and sociology behind it. Is it really a matter of “liking” that kind of thing? Or is it more of a formality every six or so weeks? Some people are self-conscious, and I can’t say I blame them, because this can be sensitive. People who do it tend to gravitate toward other people who do it, and the bond just from that one commonality is instant. Like smoking. Or having children. Or, it’s almost as if they served in the same war, or were twins separated at birth. I’ve heard comparisons to both these situations. And, do they get used to it? Or is the same every single time they go back? I’ve heard some people say their tolerance gets higher, whereas others are more apt to bring medication along. Who came up with the idea, anyway? I mean, can you imagine civilization before grooming? Before soap? What did people look like? Smell like? Well, we have pictures of what we think the Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons looked like. And we have zoos to get a sense of how they smelled. I mean, if it’s something they’ve always known, it wouldn’t have ever bothered them. At what point in history did they determine what was too hairy and too stinky? I mean, soap. It had to be an accident. People were taking a bath in a pond near some flowers whose petals fell in the water and fragranced the water. And they came out all scenty. And somewhere along the line when tools came about people’s hair kept getting caught in trees and armor and weapons and chainmail, and perhaps, chastity belts, kind of the anti-bikini. So it was time to take a razor to the head then eventually the legs. Then the face. But then who, WHO decided it was a brilliant idea to use hot wax for this purpose? That had to have been an accident as well. People were transporting candles and spilled some on their arms or legs or on their eyebrows, and they after they screamed something like HOLY UNIVERSE KILL ME NOW, the wax cooled, and they peeled it off, and it left them with smooth legs and arms and perfectly arched brows. Then they admired how clean and polished and smooth, but sometimes red and irritated they looked. But did it stop there? Did it? No! How about they wondered where else they could apply this hot wax? Fast forward through time when bikinis were en vogue. People couldn’t go walking on the beach looking all messy, wiry, coily-haired. No, that’s embarrassing. They’d rather get rid of that unruly hair by spreading hot wax where they no longer want hair and ripping it off when it dries. Like velcro, but not the friendly kind on kids’ shoes. It’s the kind that makes people want to die. In the name of grooming? People, I cry when I pluck my own eyebrows. I shake from nervousness. I jerk away even before I bring the tweezers anywhere close to my face. I meditate between tweezes; I visualize my happy place before I yank off more of my eyehair, brow fur; accoutrements.  I cannot imagine what kind of pain a bikini wax has. I’ve never had one, and I get the urge to go out and buy lots of aloe just  thinking about it. BECAUSE IT HAS TO HURT. I don’t see how they do it. And it’s not like childbirth where you endure sometimes hours of sheer anguish to bring another life into the world; I can see why people would keep wanting to have children. But the bikini wax? Really? I guess as long as I don’t get it done, it will always intrigue me, leave me curious. I’m PERFECTLY fine with that.