Poetic Waxing

When it comes to the maintenance of being a girl, there are two extremes and lots of in betweens. There are the women who cut, color, gloss, trim and perfect every part of themselves because they can, to always look their best. And then there are women who don't give a shit -- no makeup, shaving the essentials (or not) -- no products, a medicine cabinet filled with advil and toothpaste and a lipstick that someone forced them to buy.

And then there's the in-betweens, where I would imagine most of us live. I am close to the high-maintenance girl, but not as close as I once was. Recently I have re-connected with an early love for Victoria's Secret -- I finally fit their (albiet largest) cup size again. I love that store. The candy striped bags, the tissue paper, the outrageously heavy perfume. I love the catalogue, the cleavage, the unapologetically sexual marketing. I started wearing Victoria's Secret bras at sixteen, and soon moved on to their pajamas (cotton not silk) and fragrances. As a girl in Orthodox yeshiva, this was the closest I ever got to sexy**. I would cradle my round glass bottle of rose perfume in my floral pajamas and dream of romance. Victoria's Secret now has a line of cosmetics which intrigues me called "Very Sexy" with amazing slick black packaging. I am all about the packaging - a marketer's wet dream.

Where was I? Oh yes. So before I became world weary, I was much more high maintenance. I dared to blow out my curls, to travel long distance for double process color. I wore acrylic tips over my nails. All to magnify the very best me.

I am married to a man who asks for little more than a bikini wax (I will get to that later). So the aforementioned primping became a waste. I started wearing minimizing bras which are impossibly ugly (worse than nursing bras, if it's possible). He never noticed new hair color, so I would just go anywhere to conceal roots. (I should mention here that I will be dead before I will ever go gray). He hates my hair straight. So I cut corners, a more organic me, perhaps. It was certainly cheaper.

Post-baby, I have started to crave these high maintenance rituals. So I find myself back at Victoria's Secret (wondering if their PINK line is too high-school hoochie.) And at the bikini waxers.

A note about the bikini wax. First, the waxer must have an accent, and be old and ugly. Somehow, it's less embarassing. They should never look like one of your friends doing this to put themselves through grad school. Also, take two advil before the rip. It's not like kittens licking, but it's a helluva lot better.

I did the brazilian once. I cannot even speak of it.

**Except for the time I was obsessed with tights/socks that ended right over your knee. Think Alicia Silverstone in Clueless. I would wear those beneath jean skirts. Rebel!!