Beating Around The Bush

Tetyana Denford - 27 Jun 16

The things I write about are the things I talk about in real life or on social media. I’m the unfiltered one at a dinner party that shares inane trivia or asks questions like “what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”, or “do you trim, shave or wax your bits?” I’m that friend (and that’s even before I’ve had a drink). So… in that spirit, let’s talk about the latter question above: Hair-Down-There Maintenance.

Before my kids arrived on this planet, I used to have a disposable income that I would fritter away on total non-essentials; luxurious blocks of time where I would swan into fancy boutiques and try on tragically hip clothing with safety pins in odd places, sip overpriced trendy coffees, buy face creams made from pearl dust (yes, this actually exists) and take taxis to arrogant loft parties that only allowed clear drinks. I wrote for magazines at the time, so I blithely called it “research”. They were non-essentials, but oh-so-gorgeously entertaining ones. I also used to pay someone, every 4 weeks, to pour hot wax on my legs and my lady bits. And rip it off with efficient cruelty. Yep, that’s right. And I used to thank her for it. It may be a non-essential to some, but at the time, that became one of my essentials. I liked it. 

What is wrong with you?! is what you’re probably asking me. Why would you do that, like, ever? Why would anyone pay to be in pain, especially down there, for a full 25 minutes (or 45, depending on how much body hair you’ve inherited from Granny Mildred)? Are you a Kardashian? Do you have a sex-tape coming out that we don’t know about? Do you want to look like a shiny seal?

A lot of women have done it. And some men. Some do it on a regular basis, some only occasionally. We’ve all paid various amounts of money so that some random stranger (with alleged qualifications, who knows, but they look ‘official’ in a white lab coat at least) can go down in there like a determined miner (minus the headlamp) and strip away, quite literally, our dignity for a brief moment in time. The customers are all different ages. The venues vary from quiet shrines of Japanese minimalism, to small little places right down the street that look like you’re doing a free show in someone’s living room. But they all do the same thing: wax you within an inch of your life so that it looks like parts of your body never actually experienced puberty. And the parts that did, magically grew in rectangle/triangle/heart/arrow/lightning bolt shapes. 

I used to stride to my fancy place of Lady Garden Worship like a woman on a very specific hair-free mission. Oh, how I looked forward to that day, even though parts of me felt otherwise (imagine the animal/vet scenario). Plus, this place had booze occasionally and encouraged daytime drinking, and I’m always a big fan of places that give you a champagne glass full of “screw it, let’s get on with it” attitude.

This little oasis was a veritable sanctuary of calm: all pale blue glass countertops and cool white, underlit ceilings. The music would be soft, unobtrusive and unrecognisable (no one needs Shakira’s latest tune blasting through the speakers when you’re lying naked on the table like a hopeless fish). The caviar-laced anti-aging products and Essie nail varnishes would be lit up on the glass cabinets like some kind of spiritual answer to turkey skin and unsightly cuticles. There was never any stress when you walked in there, it was always someone in a lab-coat greeting you with a rehearsed “Oh hello, you’re here for your appointment? Great, climb into one of our ridiculously large massage chairs where your feet won’t touch the floor.” *climbs in, vaulting head first into the chair, legs splayed* “That’s right. Would you like a tea? Coffee? Japanese rice crackers? Valium? Gin? No? Okay then, your therapist (apparently vaginas need a therapist) will be right with you.”

The ritual was the same: I’d walk into my designated padded room, strip from the waist down, and lie down in a completely undignified way on the table, legs akimbo. I was always fine with waxing my legs, that was perfectly sensible. It was the other stuff that always made me feel slightly nervous. I would be calming myself down and trying to tap into that mild booze-fuelled buzz whilst this 25-year old technician would be prepping for the session: briskly snapping on latex gloves, stirring a pot of bubbling hot wax (that she swears is “pain-free”, aaaahaha she’s a comedian too! brilliant!).. and then finally putting on some kind of welding helmet with what looked like 4D binoculars attached. I’m assuming it was to make sure she mercilessly wrestled every last bit of hair off of me. Or it may have been to see the inside of my soul, I had no idea. 

When I went for my very first waxing, I didn’t have a clue what to do other than just lie there and wait for it all to be over. So the very understanding girl had to puppet-master me into various positions. Now, I liked a bit of yoga, so flexible positions for me were easy (‘oooh, look at that, how do you do that? well done you!’ she would say, and I would feel proud and ashamed at the same time), but this was a whole new level of mortifying. I kept apologising to her, trying to make feeble conversation. Legs in a v-shape up and to the side (sorry), soles of the feet together and knees out (you have such a weird job, I’m so sorry about this), one leg towards the ear and the other one down (oh wow, really? oh my god), oh and then the spectacular “on all fours” (oh christ.. please let there be no strange noises coming out of me.. did you know I horseback ride as a hobby..? why am I telling you about horseback riding, this is so weird, I need to stop talking..). At one point I closed my eyes and pretended I was auditioning for some kind of low-talent, R-rated Cirque Du Soleil, praying that I wouldn’t end up looking like some sunburned, infuriated, hairless cat. 

So, after all that, what made me keep going? 

Well, firstly, I was incredibly happy with the results. I mean, ultimately, it’s a personal choice, that whole trimming/waxing situation. No one told me to do it, no magazine convinced I would be perfect if I looked prepubescent. I wanted to try it. Once I did, I felt that waxing my legs and other parts of me made me feel “sorted out”. It felt like I’d tidied the house (minus the smell of bleach). Plus, when I had it done, I felt like I was a walking advert for overt sexuality. I was still me, still dressed the same, but I had an instant internal boost of well hello there sassy-ness. I felt like I was wielding a fantastic, womanly, superhero power in that sexy-ness. Hell, I’m also all for a 70s bush, landing strip, Brazilian, vajazzle (okay, maybe not a vajazzle, I’m not comfortable with finding tiny sequins in hard-to-reach places)… and ultimately it’s all a personal choice of what makes women feel sexiest. 

After having kids, I had little time or money to invest in that grooming stuff. I only had time to take a 10 minute shower every 3 days and remember where on earth I left the baby. But, now that my littlest one is two and a half, I have a bit more time and money saved up to try things again. I’m experimenting with my style more. I’ve chopped my hair off (the ones on my head). I’m testing out what works for me and what doesn’t. And naturally, I want to test out things that make me feel sexy. Small t-shirts make me feel sexy. Summery, bare legs make me feel sexy. Messy hair makes me feel sexy. Red lipstick makes me feel sexy. And, well….I discovered that occasionally, a bit of gardening is an extremely sexy and worthwhile pursuit.

Tetyana Denford

Tetyana is a Ukrainian-American mum of three, married to an Englishman, living in NY. She's written for Elle and Vogue magazines, and her first novel 'Motherland' is available at Amazon. She hosts a YouTube show called The Craft and Business of Books, translates for Frontline PBS news, and writes freelance.

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