Wax on Wax off.


Content warning – (P.S How much do the words ‘content warning’ make you want to read a post even more) OK, so this post contains words such as vagina, vulva, and feminism. If any of those words offend you, consider this a NSFW post and I’ll catch you on another day.

I’m not an overly high maintenance wife. I don’t ask for too much. I don’t need to go to the hairdressers every other week, or require full body massages, or manicures. Actually, I’m pretty low maintenance really. Some might even say I’m just plain old lazy.

But I haven’t completely let myself go.

I shower. I shave my legs every day. I’m smooth.

But sometimes you have conversations with a friend and you come up with stupid ideas to screw with the system. The hair system. And this is where the tale of the Wax-gate begins. It includes myself, a dear friend and a couple of jars of Nad’s wax. (Ever think that the Brand ‘Nads’ is a stupid name? I mean Nads. Seriously. I know it’s the woman’s name, but nads are balls. Everyone knows it.


Our men were away.

The hair had grown in the places.

There had been very little motivation to keep things ‘maintained’

These men were due back any day and we had this masochistic and overly optimistic brilliant idea that a home wax job would be an excellent way of saying “welcome home!” (Our own homes, separately, to be clear. We don’t have a Utah situation going on or anything).

We bought our $17 wax pots (the kind that you heat up, slap on, then rip off), and after realising that the instructions were of absolutely no help, we decided to just go home and text each other with reports. Pictures optional.

I will now refer you back to the introduction of this post. You’ve been warned.


Waxing. A DIY tale.

I had my jar of wax. I had my popsicle sticks. There were even stickers in there so I could try a ‘lightening bolt’ or ‘heart’ shape. I feel like they over estimated my interest in arts and crafts. I threw out the stickers and poured a glass of wine.

I thought that because I can do yoga relatively well (note: relatively), I would be fine applying wax to the under-est part of my under-carriage. I’m pretty bendy at the waist, right? I mean, you stick a mirror against the wall, sit on a towel, bend at the middle and.. well, it’s basically like putting jam on toast.


First of all, the jam is wax.

Second of all, the toast is your fanny.

It’s actually remarkably hard to apply wax to these parts while sitting. Picture Buddha (during his fat phase). When you sit down, you need to get your legs out of the way. Then the parts you are trying to ‘access’ kinda just naturally tuck under your butt. Like they are trying to run away.

There were no instructions in the box for how one should ‘sit’ whilst attempting to rip out one’s short and curlies, so naturally I lay down. Which also doesn’t work because then the mirror is useless. And your legs have nowhere to go. Oh, and you are meant to pull the skin (read: flaps) taut.

So actually what you end up doing is lying on your back with your legs apart in the air doing Jane Fonda sit-ups with hot wax on a popsicle stick, reaching as if your life depended on it, for the back of your… vulva. I suddenly realised I was probably burning calories doing all these sit-ups which helped me get through the next part.

Of course the instructions say you have to heat the wax up for like a minute and a half, and leave it on the hair for around 30 seconds. Well, this is about the biggest lie since the  ‘trigonometry is useful’ speech. I ended up reheating the wax about 73 times because it kept going hard as it cooled. And each time took like 5 minutes in the microwave. And my room is up a flight of stairs, so every time I had to reheat it I’d have to run down the stairs half-naked, covered in bits of wax.

(A huge thank you to all my friends that know I need to be texted first before you randomly come to my house. THIS. IS.WHY)

If you leave the wax on the hair for too long (i.e, more that 10 seconds) it goes crunchy.

CRUNCHY people.

It doesn’t come off in one smooth motion; you have to pick it off, piece by piece. Slowly. And it hurts worse than the sequel to Dirty Dancing did. And you are doing sit-ups. Because life is cruel.

Now, holding the skin taut while you are partially on the ground, writhing in pain, legs flailing around is about as easy as trying to get a cat into a sock. I needed something to hold myself up, and something to hold myself ‘taut’ and something to pull off the wax with. I tried a one-leg-up-the-wall maneuver, a squatting maneuver, and a cursing-at-the -wax-jar maneuver. Nothing was working. I briefly thought about duct-taping one flap to the wall for better ‘tautness’ whilst balancing and pulling with my free hands.

But we’d run out of duct-tape.

About 2 hours in, I was getting low on wax, because as well as lying about how long to heat it, how long to leave it on, and how long the whole horrendous experience should take, they also lied about how much wax I would actually need. So, out of true desperation and an unwillingness to return to the shops half-naked, I threw all the used strips back in the jar which then resembled a bowl of extremely ‘rustic’ crackling, and reheated the whole lot.

I can feel your judgement, and I understand. I judge me a little bit too.

So now I had a jar of floating hair. And no more pride. What I was actually aiming for was an empty jar, and no more hair.

Finally after about 3 hours, half a bottle of wine, and a very disrespectful looking pile of red wax strips, I won.

Me = 1 Pubes = 0

Now, I know my story doesn’t sound like an ideal way to spend a weekend alone. And you would be right. But I wasn’t the only one. Unnamed friend possibly had it even worse. What I find so funny is that even after this conversation, I still went ahead with my own wax. It’s possible I don’t have that switch that says “learn from the mistakes of others”.

Because I am lazy (I think we covered that already) and because the series of texts were so sadistically hilarious (the Snapchats were too graphic to be included)  I have just posted them below instead of typing the whole conversation out.

 Just to clarify, at the time of the waxing her mother-in-law was staying with her. Because life.

(Grey is friend, Blue is me.)

blogAnd because, as I mentioned, I never learn from the pain of others…


So my friends, what have we learned from this? If you are like me, probably nothing.

But I can tell you that I will not be DIY-ing my D.I.R  (Delicate Intimate Region) again any time soon.

Mostly because J has hidden the duct-tape.



















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