At the risk of belaboring this theme and boring my readers with the sequel, I will now explain what it feels like to pay someone hundreds (maybe even thousands?) of dollars a year to pull every single one of those hairs out of your skin at the root by means of hot molten wax; masking tape; and a needle-nosed metal tweezers.
Today is my bi-weekly appointment with the only sadist dungeon in the world that plays Enya and smells like hyacinth. The place where I lie on a soft, comfy massage table and make small talk about kids and Hawaii with an attractive young part-time college student. The one with sweet, minty-smelling breath and meticulous makeup who rips hair off my face while I intermittently curse, sneeze, kick, and cry.
I need to tell you though: this is a way more humane experience than my New York City waxer, a terrifying Eastern European beast with hideous moles who liked to add psychological torture to the mix: "VYE DO YOU TVWEEZE?!," she would spit and cluck angrily two inches from my ear. (They hate it when you tweeze between waxings). "EVERY TIME I TELL YOU NOT TO TVWEEZE!!!!" (They tell you this because it makes their job harder when they have to pull out the tiny, ingrown hairs that I guess you're just supposed to admire in the interim). But damn if you didn't look GOOD when she finally cut you loose.
And therein lies the difference between customer service in New York City and Juneau with respect to waxers: in NYC, you often get a slightly better outcome or product with a lot more punishment, yelling, and overall unpleasantness. The jury is still out on whether it's worth it.
