I'm not proud. At least not too proud to admit that I regularly get my face waxed. And unlike most normal women who like to shop, giggle, and visit the salon, I can think of 327 things I'd rather do than step foot in a salon. However, if I did not, I would not only be sporting a unibrow that encroaches on my eyelids, but also a moustache that would give Friedrich Nietzche (go ahead, google him or google "famous moustaches") a run for the money.
What's funny is that when you explain to the receptionist at the salon which services you would like to shell out the big money for, you must request a "lip" wax. I know we as a society are trying to make women feel better about themselves and all, but PC people, I'm not getting my lip waxed; that would hurt as much as a bikini wax. I'm getting my moustache waxed.
Another thing, PC people, there really are women out there with full-fledged moustaches. I was picking up pizza at Little Caesars the other night, and this cute young girl checked me out. I know she was cute because I had to make a very conscious effort to look at her face without being obviously distracted by her moustache. Does she not notice it?
Anyway, I am always careful to make my waxing visit to the salon before I go on vacation, and since we're heading to the beach tomorrow, it's especially important because the bright sun highlights one's moustache if it is not properly dealt with. Now I am an "I need my personal space" person, so I'm always bothered by how close the "waxing technician" gets to you when she is yanking all of your hair out by the root. I was especially conscious of it today what with the pig flu going around. I was tempted to ask her about her recent traveling history, but knowing how many hours these people put in to their salons, I'm sure she hasn't had time for a romantic getaway to Cozumel.
The woman who did my waxing today had also just finished giving pedicures to two burly guys named Bubba 1 and Bubba 2. As they were walking out and I realized she would likely be the one to call me to the back, I could only pray, "Please let her wash her hands. Please let her wash her hands." I think she did. At least she was at the sink for some time. Of course, she could have just been handwashing all of the tools she used on the big guys. We'll see if I get the creepin' crud on my eyebrows or "lips."