I would like to foray, for a moment, into the world of life and style and womanhood. We women live a life and lifestyle of constant torture.
Someone even sang a song about it. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman’. Do you remember that one? I have a problem with that song. It’s not even about life as a woman being hard. It’s about men. I will admit that much of our torture is caused by our desire to keep the man that the song says we must stand by. Much of our torture is putting up with the nonsense one must put up with in order not to be single, but that isn’t the real torture of being a woman. Oh no.
The real torture is the wax. Yes, I am going to go there because I have just been there and I’m sore. Now, polite society tells us that we don’t talk about those things. Why not? We suffer through them. Lets talk about the wax.
It is one thing to have a little eyebrow wax. It’s not so bad to wax the legs. It’s a little sore, but it makes your legs look pretty for all the world to see when you put on your little frock on a lovely summer day. Silk scarves slide down them unhindered by stubble. The leg wax is groovy.
Now let’s get to the real meat of the matter. The bikini wax. Why? Why is it that we women are forced to wax the fanny? I mean, who gets to see? Maybe at the gym a couple of women might be glancing in your direction as you pull on your g-string. They may notice whether or not your have waxed, but who cares what they think? On the beach if you sit in an unbecomingly immodest manner it may possibly be noticed by those who are inappropriately scoping out your crotch, but they will be perverts so who cares what they think?
We are not glamour models. We are not photographed in our knickers. We don’t walk around the mall in our undies. No one gets to see what goes on under our skirts. But we wax, religiously. We suffer every other monthly. Why? Because we are women. It’s hard.
The only reason we go through the torture of having hot wax smeared over the most delicate part of the anatomy, and then once the wax has cooled having it ripped off wrenching every hair in its wake from the deepest follicle is for the satisfaction of one’s lover. Are your legs crossed at the very thought? They should be. It’s torture.
Who came up with the idea that this area should be shaped up? It was men. It is for their viewing pleasure. It is misogyny at it’s worst and we women comply for reasons which I have yet to fathom. I mean, as one lies on that table with ones legs akimbo in the most exposing pose imaginable awaiting a discomfort that far surpasses the humiliation of the gynie one cannot but ask oneself, “What the heck am I doing to myself and why?”
It’s hard to be a woman. Every other month at waxing time, it’s hard.