Hair Removal at the Beach… a beauty ‘don’t you ever’

True story. Once upon a time, a hardworking skin care expert (me!) finally found a few hours to enjoy some sun-n-fun. There I was relaxing on my beach blanket (yes I was wearing spf 30, a hat to shade my face from aging UVA rays, and sunglasses to avoid squinting), when another beach beauty parked herself near my real estate. All was good. The sun shone, the sand sparkled, sea gulls sang and the waves gently rolled ashore. I sat up to enjoy an ice-cold bottle of water and take in the natural beauty, and what did I see?

My beach neighbor, whom I shall call Yellow Bikini, was engaged in the not so pretty process of tweezing stray hairs from around her kneecaps, her lower leg, and… ‘oh no she did not…. oh yes she did’ …her bikini line. On the beach. In public.

As a beauty expert, here’s what I saw, in slow motion (add horror film soundtrack now): Yellow Bikini sits cross-legged on a beach towel, thighs spread open, her back rounds and shoulders slump forward so can get a close-up view of the offending hair. She reaches into her handbag and retrieves tweezers holding them up momentarily so the tip catches the sun with a fiery glint. She squints and her jaw locks with determination as she swoops down, pulling her thigh flesh taut with one hand, plucking with the other. Mission complete, she smiles, lifts her chin smugly and raises the tweezers into the air to examine her success… satisfied, she goes in for round two.

What disturbed me most, beside the fact that I could not stop staring at this spectacle, was that Yellow Bikini had clearly planned to do this on the beach, because she brought tweezers! Now don’t get me wrong, I am a huge fan of de-fuzzing, especially down there, where I think bare is better. And I do appreciate Yellow Bikini’s abashed approach. And yet, all I can say is ‘ewww, really at the beach?!’

Beauty tip: if you have some stray hairs that pop up between waxing, I recommend a more demure option than Yellow Bikini’s method. You can use Poetic Waxing Kit to do touch ups. You can get Bikini Perfect and use the epilating head to remove unwanted hairs. You can use Get Out of Hair to discourage the re-growth of hair.

Some things should definitely be done at home, behind a closed bathroom door, don’t you think?
bliss kisses, Donna

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One Response to Hair Removal at the Beach… a beauty ‘don’t you ever’

  1. Kelly Sue says:

    This is a true story, that I assure you did NOT happen at BLISS:

    When I arrived, my hair removal professional — whom we’ll call Sheila — was on the phone, arguing loudly with her landlord about a rent check. Though I was in the waiting room and she was in the room-room, she was using her “outside voice” and I could hear every word.

    Now, I’m one of those people who can discuss bodily functions from sex acts to flatulence without the slightest blush. I am quite literally shameless and occasionally have to be reminded that the people with whom I’m conversing may not be interested in a detailed history of my poops.

    Money, however, is not a topic for polite conversation. I can’t even discuss our finances with my husband without squirming. It’s just dirty. And rude. Somehow. I can’t explain it.

    So hearing Sheila shriek at her landlord that she ABSOLUTELY was not going to pay his overdraw fee because it was not HER fault that her lousy $100 check caused him to be OVERDRAWN and how could he run a business if a lousy $100 would cause him to be OVERDRAWN anyway and oh yeah he should go f himself! was more than I could comfortably handle. I was already kind of squirmy, anticipating the pain of having my pubes forcibly removed with hot wax. Sheila’s screamy credit report did not put me at ease.

    She called me into the back.

    For reasons that I cannot begin to understand, as I lay there on the table, buck nekkid save for my white cardigan and pearls, with Sheila at work between my legs, I asked, “How’ve you been?”

    “Oh, I have had a week,” she said, and launched into a laundry list of Things Gone Wrong. She bounced a check to her landlord (we knew that), her husband lost his job, her son’s Catholic girlfriend got pregnant, and … and …

    She interrupted herself to instruct me, “Knees up.” Simultaneously, she began to sob uncontrollably and depilate my butthole.

    I’ve been getting waxed by this woman on a monthly basis for about a year now. I’m pretty sure I know how it’s supposed to go. While I’m certain that on previous visits she has waxed the PROXIMITY of my butthole, I do NOT recall having previously experienced the sensation of hot wax on my ACTUAL BUTTHOLE.

    Not that it was entirely unpleasant, mind you, I’m just saying it was new. And frankly, I was a little worried. Isn’t that a super-delicate membrane? If something goes wrong, will I have to have a skingraft from my lips? I seem to remember hearing that in middle school at some point.

    Anyway, she was crying and I was concerned for the wellbeing of my butthole.

    “My d-d-dog d-d-died,” she cried. Her face was bright red, her eyes were tiny slits, her shoulders were bouncing up and down a full four inches per sob. And yet, she kept working.

    Poor little Charlie, a four-pound yorkie who never did anything to anyone but love them, had somehow managed to hop up into the car as Sheila’s husband was unloading groceries. Once unloaded, the car doors were shut and poor little four-pound Charlie who never did anything to anyone but love them, was locked in a four-door oven for 7 hours. By the time they found him, he was bleeding from his nose, brain damaged and cooked from the inside out. They rushed him to the vet and sat vigil all night long. But poor little four-pound Charlie who never did anything to anyone but love them, didn’t pull through.

    Sheila was overcome. She was also, at last, finished defuzzing my bum. She stopped and stood there between my knees, head in hand, sobbing, sniffing and repeating, “I’m sorry.”

    What exactly is the proper etiquette for comforting someone when you’re naked from the waist down?

    “This is going to be weird,” I said, “because I’m not wearing panties, but c’mere.” I sat up and Sheila stepped in and we hugged. As she wept, I patted her head and tried to think of anything but Charlie.

    “I’m sorry,” she said again. “But you were very hairy down there.”

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