My husband waxed my arm: Why the beauty salon industry will be ok
My unrealistic expectations of an at-home waxing experience.
After weeks of self-isolation and learning to cope with the new reality of everything-DIY, a certain situation in my house could no longer be ignored. As spring came into bloom and the weather started to warm up, my legs begged to be freed from the pants prison they had been in since the start of winter. The problem, however, is that my Middle Eastern genes had also seen a blossoming of their own in the form of dark, inescapable body hair.
This exasperating story is not uncommon these days, with a different version echoed by almost everyone who depends on someone else for at least part of their personal grooming. Not all beauty routines are scary, though; giving yourself a manicure or dying your roots are arguably less harrowing than, say, cutting your kid's hair after watching a YouTube tutorial. For me, that grey area took the form of body waxing. Born into an Egyptian culture that holds the steadfast belief that women should always maintain skin smoother than a water porpoise, I clearly favored my US upbringing, which is more flexible in the body hair arena. How much hair a woman should have on her body is subject to a million different opinions, my own being that everyone should decide what's right for them, not what their social surroundings deem appropriate.
For this reason, I live in my own bubble of inconsistency. I might prefer a more hairless existence, but, much to my mother's dismay, I am no stranger to furry legs, arms, and other less exposed areas of my body. That said, I'm normally a 15-minute drive from the quick, professional fingers of my favorite hair removal specialist, Mia, so waxing at home never crossed my mind. Until now. After looking longingly at my spring wardrobe (that, yes, I would still wear even at home), as well as the rising index of my apartment's thermostat, I dusted off the new at-home wax kit I impulsed purchased years back.
“Like the girl who runs upstairs in a campy ‘90s horror movie, you can safely assume that I’m heading for disaster.”
My nervousness slowly subsided as my hands got into a sticky rhythm of wax-on, wax-off. After triumphantly conquering my legs in a not-perfect-but-satisfactory status, my sights turned to my arms. I was already splayed out across the bathroom floor with another hour to kill before my next Zoom, so I thought, why not? Like the girl who runs upstairs in a campy '90s horror movie, you can safely assume that I'm heading for disaster. My hands, previously a tolerable level of sticky, suddenly felt like they were covered in super glue, and the wax pot that I conveniently left on its highest heat setting had turned the molten wax into volcanic lava. By the time I was halfway up my right arm, my lack of ambidexterity was like water on a grease fire. Staring down at my naked, sticky body, I said a prayer for my skin and the red, blotchy spots popping up everywhere. I said a prayer for Mia as I imagined our tear-filled reunion. I said a prayer for my husband, who would have to save me in my very least sexy nude form.
After verbally prepping him for the sight he was about to see and reminding him that I still remember all of his cringe-worthy adolescent AIM handles, I invited him into the bathroom for a Super(wo)man level rescue mission. Approximately 30 minutes later, a less hairy (albeit mentally scared) version of myself emerged from the bathroom. To his credit, my husband refrained from hair-related humor and made me a cup of tea as I sat down to prep for my next conference call, relieved to finally be moving on with my day.
For better or for worse, we as a society are learning how to rely on ourselves more than ever. Things will never be the same; that much is also true. But in many other ways, we are learning that some things really are better left to the professionals we hold dear in our self-care rituals.