I was in my late teens and I was still in my active ‘try to look like everyone else even though you never will’ phase. My main images for my desired looks and behavior came from magazines - where not one model looked like me. The models in the magazines had bouncy shiny hair and clear skinned and were not in the least hairy – especially ‘down there’. I wanted so badly to fit in, to look like them so I bought the skin creams and I tried the hair products and, one weekend when I was home on break with my mother, I bought myself a self waxing kit.
Now the kit required you to microwave the wax for a short period of time and then immediately apply it to your area, put the removal strips on the warm wax, wait a few seconds and then pull. My mother’s microwave was in the kitchen on one side of the house and the bathroom was on the other. By the time I’d heated the wax, crossed the house to the bathroom, removed my clothes and applied the wax, it had cooled too much to be effective. I tried applying the strips and pulling anyway but nothing happened. My kiki was now partially covered in wax and it was not coming off.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to pull wax off your skin but your Shereen Nanjiani is not the easiest place to try it. It hurts. A lot. And when it hurts, you scream. And when you scream, your mother starts pounding on the door, asking what’s wrong. And when your mother is pounding on the door, asking what’s wrong when you have a hoo hee covered in wax, the only answer is to laugh. I laughed. A lot. I laughed loud and long and there were tears and my mother was still asking and I was still laughing and it was not a pretty sight.
Hours later, I finally got all the wax off with nail polish remover - all the wax and only some of my skin. I would love to say that the lesson was learned and that I never tried to give myself a beauty treatment at home again – but there is evidence out there of my ‘blonde’ hair dye job, my many attempts with make-up, the eyebrow-plucking incident, not to mention the haircut I’m currently sporting.
The doctor and nurse seemed suitably amused by my stupidity. Or at least they pretended to be. It’s hard to tell when your feet are in stirrups and your face is on fire.
I have an ultrasound next week. What fresh hell of a story will that bring up?