I admit, I’m a bit of a sluggard and pretty ad hoc when it
comes to hair removal. But neither am I
comfortable with remaining too hirsute in skin-exposing hot weather. The spa at
my hotel is prohibitively expensive, so it makes perfect sense to avail myself
of the abundance of considerably cheaper
waxing options available in Patong, where I head for the first time one
afternoon and evening, on the free one-way hotel shuttle bus.
I walk in expecting the five minutes of torture I’m
accustomed to in Australia every couple of months, that has at times saved me
from both the daily tedium of the razor with its souvenir bumps and scratches,
and the lunatic fringe stereotyping and exposure that comes with being too
hippy and hairy a gal with a mo. What I actually get takes the meaning of
‘service’ to new levels: the dedicated application of these two bored
aetheticiennes, for the best part of an hour. At first, they seem a little
shocked as my sudden arrival drags them out of their low season torpor, but
after that they seem to apply themselves to the job of depilating my bits with
a dedication verging on a fever.One is heavily-acned and wears braces, sly of eye and simperingly sycophantic towards this Farang lady, no doubt self-conscious about her ‘plain’ looks. Desperate for approval, in a land that places a premium on female beauty, her face distorts into a lie of a smile. The other is a classically pretty-faced, soft-spoken stunner with a great sense of humour, and no need to prove anything to anyone. Her smiles are genuine, unhurried, uncontrived.
Together, wearing surgical masks and discussing their next
move, they topiarize me within an inch of my life. Like a surreal cross between
a chess game and an appendectomy, I begin to question whether I haven’t been
slipped a mickey, or accidentally wandered into one of the many dentists that
are a mecca for westerners seeking cheap
tooth repairs and whiter smiles. I fully
expect to come away with some organs missing.
I draw the line at a Brazilian, but they do their best to prune, pluck,
scrape and trim me within the available parameters of modesty that a
strategically-draped towel will allow.
When it comes time to perform the euphemistically-named
‘bikini line’ part of the deal, what I think will be a speedy solution enabling me
to wear my bathing costume without drawing undue attention to my dark and feral
‘lady fur’, turns into a protracted work
of art. I cannot see exactly what is
going on down there. Are they waxing,
plucking, scissoring or threading my despicable
hairs away, or some combination of all these methodologies? It’s as
though there is a prize about to be awarded to she who can sculpt the finest
design, and trophy the most Farang lady body hair. The fawning one grows
increasingly brazen and, as her fingers probe close to my fun parts, I wonder at one point whether I am in for a
'happy ending' – ay carumba!
It has taken me a while to understand the classic Thai
pronunciation faux-pas, inscribed on the spa menu and outside on blackboard,
but let’s just say, after what seems like an interminable amount of time in the
clutches of these two waxing witches, I eventually leave with my “upper lift”
expertly de-moustached… and my lower ones rather alarmingly and thoroughly
de-bearded!
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