So it’s the eve of my birthday.
And the house is horribly quiet. Very nearly 8 year old is far from home with a rammed miniscule rucksack of by now potentially wet and muddy clothes. I’m still reeling from the discovery that most children at school had a dainty though infinitely better proportioned suitcase on wheels. You know to enable a small child without broad shoulders to relocate their stuff from the bus to the dorm rooms. Mine on the other hand had a smallish rucksack crammed tighter than a ‘Party Popper’ and just as likely to spray the contents to the four corners of the dorm upon opening. I’ve already accepted that she’ll only be bringing home a quarter of its original contents. That and newly bulging ‘traps’ not entirely in keeping with a very nearly 8 year old girl.
The 3 year old is watching a Barbie movie in her room. A Barbie movie is as effective a tranquiliser as Ketamine to a horse when administered to a toddler. Suffice to say she’ll drift into a pink-hued sleep and the house will be quieter still. I’m going to do what any sensible 45 year old (yes still…) would and have an early night. But not before some pre-birthday body preparations. It’s too late in the day for butt implants, a breast lift, liposuction and mini surgical facelift and frankly as you know I wouldn’t be arsed even if I had the money and could hack the pain. No I’m talking about low-maintenance de-fuzzing. I’ve put this off for a while but it’s time to wax my moustache, pluck my eyebrows and file down my hooves.
With the appropriate tools carefully assembled in the bathroom I wonder if I’m too tired to bother; do I care enough to continue, am I being drawn into a vicious cycle of media-pressured female bureaucracy? Glancing in the mirror at my furry smile and hint of ‘monobrow’ confirms that I do. Being a ridiculous cheapskate; I’m using cheap, cold wax strips from Home Bargains for my ‘Burt Reynolds’. I’ve used them before and can confirm that the whole process hurts like fuck and previously led to an internal debate about going the whole hog, sourcing the hormones, binding the handful I have and becoming a man. Might be easier and less painful. The fact I’m married put me off, but now I’m single the choice is very real. After all there are other advantages too:
1. Comfortable pants.
2. Half an hour per day with the paper in the toilet.
3. No more multi-tasking!
4. Full use of the remote control.
5. Scratching ‘ad arbitrium’.
But no; I’m ‘pour femme’ through and through, if we ignore the previously mentioned hairy grin and hint of Frido Kahlo. So I shall stay as God intended; a pale peach of a woman with a disgusting sense of humour and freakily small hands and feet. Cutting through my musing is a new noise. The snore of a Warthog with a sinus infection; thus signalling that the 3 year old is now asleep. It is time. I can put it off no longer I realise whilst warming a strip of wax between the palms of my now sweaty hands.
Despite having had 4 kids and laughingly believing I’m pretty good with pain; a rapid, sharp exit of around 200 hairs in one searing moment frankly fills me with dread. So I chicken out and fold the strip in half deciding to tackle just the one side at a time. At this point my adrenaline kicks in as I smooth the inch square of sticky hell over one side of my mouth and whip it off again. Holy Mother of God…I must be hormonal; that was akin to being burnt alive. Right striking while the iron is still hot I apply the other side of the strip to my now lopsided mouth. Fuck-a-duck for Christmas…it’s like being branded by the devil. I’m begging for forgiveness as I warm a further strip and know it’s time for the very worst bit. My ‘Hitler’ must now be dealt with. A minute later I view my purple, shiny and distorted upper lip with a mixture of pride and scorn. What the bloody hell am I doing? It’s not like it was long enough to style the tapered ends…
Moving on I grapple with the tweezers and my eyebrows; I’m not gonna lie these are pretty easy as I’ve been styling these ‘bad boys’ since the age of 12 with varying degrees of success. To be fair it did take approximately 30 years to get the shape right but all good things come to those who wait. So whipping off the excess in this area was a piece of piss when compared to my now bleeding upper lip. I already know there’ll be a ‘cornflake’ like scab in each corner of my mouth by the morning. Happy fucking Birthday to me…
The hooves too were easy; pleasurable I might add. Nothing like a good pumice of the sole; I find a tub of Praline ‘Haagan Dazs’ does a similar job for my other ‘soul’. So with two teensy bits of tissue adorning my swollen gob I make haste into my pit and hope that 9 hours of ‘beauty sleep’ might put wrongs right and by sunrise I’ll be tip-top and ready to enter my 46th year!