Ouch!

The subtitle to this post is “She’s more than just the woman who rips the hair out of my back – she’s also my friend.”

Last week Adina made a comment that I have a big secret and that I would have to post it within a week or she would disclose it to all. I don’t think it’s really a secret though, because anyone that has seen me swimming in the past week, would see clearly that I no longer have hair on my back. I had it waxed.

A few weeks ago I won a gift certificate for a local hair salon. Because Katie had given me a buzz cut a day earlier (with her Barber in a Box) I looked at the other services that the salon offered. I narrowed my options to a pedicure or a waxing. My choice was a pleasant afternoon that would fade quickly or a tortuous afternoon with pleasant effects that would last a few weeks. I went with the torture.

The waxer, Kim, was super friendly. She sensed my anxiety over the phone and reassured me that she was not an ogre that would jump on me like they do on TV. I have never seen this on TV and prior to my conversation with Kim I had not had this fear, but now I did. My original fear was that deep down (read: shallow as a puddle) I would wimp out halfway through the ordeal and leave with a strip of paper stuck to my back. I expected to learn a good deal about myself during this.

However, my experience was very good. Except for the systematic pulling of hair (and what felt like skin), it was very relaxing. The rooms lighting was dim and Kim played soothing New Age music. The wax smelled like honey. And the conversation was great.

Kim and I talked about Milwaukee and work – hers and mine. We talked about our families and our religions. And then we talked about books. Recently it seems as if I have been hitting the chick-lit a little stronger than usual. Also, Oprah has been selecting some of my favorites for her book club, so we had those titles in common too. By the end we were writing down titles and authors for each other. She also told me that if she couldn’t find my suggestion, she would call my house.

I had originally planned to not tell anyone about my adventure in aesthetics, but then realized that because of my swimming tendency, it would be obvious that something had happened. I told my friends, and it’s a good thing that I did because when we went to the French festival, Bastille Days, we had the contest of who sees someone that they know first. I won; I saw Kim.