The waxing.

So there are a lot of things that women do to be pretty. We pluck and we pierce. We shave and we straighten. And we wax.

I had a four o'clock appointment with my "waxologist" Taylor. Now, Taylor could be a boy or a girl. I prayed to God and all that is holy and sacred in this world that Taylor was a girl. When a deep voice bellowed "Jessica?" in the waiting room, I rescinded all religion on the spot. My cheeks were burning as I walked through the big glass doors to the waxing room. He led me into a small room that smelled like burning crayons. He held up these little tiny PAPER PANTIES and said "Taylor will be with you shortly". I almost started to cry on the spot and quickly told the Lord I was just kidding about the whole recession thing. Meanwhile, I was not putting on the paper panties--I shoved those in a potted tree near the door.

I laid down on the table and tried to relax. There was soft oriental music in the background and a heated water pillow under my head. I took a deep breath and was settling in when the door flung open. Standing in the entire doorway was a very large woman with a severe bun and permanent frown. "Taylor eez bizzie" she grumbled. "Legz and bikini?" A very tiny part of me screamed "No thank you Yetti" but the rest of me gulped and nodded. She nodded (and grunted?) and set to work warming up the wax. She placed a small amount on my calf, rubbed it down with a small cloth, and RRRIIPPP--it was as if millions of leg hairs cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. Well, my leg was not about to let this She-man get away with it. I watched in slow motion as my leg lifted itself off the soft table, and with, toes pointed, came in contact with her stubbly chin. She reeled backwards and bumped into the burner where the wax was heated. The wax sloshed up over the sides like a volcano read to blow. She stood up and looked at me with the look of death common on all Eastern European women over a certain age. I tried to apologize, but my words were struck with fear and would not come out. After a few terrifying seconds, her mouth contorted into what I believe was a smile. She chuckled a little and said "Waxing hurtz. Keep your foot down, pleaz"

The rest of the experience was intolerably painful, and I'm sure Helga wasn't pulling any punches. When it was over, I sat up and looked down at my very red, very sticky legs. As I tried to pull my pants back on, she said "You want me to do zomething about thoze eyebrowz? Ze look like Groucho Marx." I think I deserved that.

Meanwhile, I'm still sticking to my pants.