You've got to stop this. But you can't help yourself. While
you're in the hair salon buying shampoo for colour-treated hair, you find
yourself making an appointment for a leg wax. You will be hairless. Forty is the
new thirty. You will be smooth, controlled, gym-toned, with the body of a woman
in her late twenties, lushly in her prime and way ahead of the game.
And the voice you hear now as you sit in the salon leafing
through the magazines before your appointment will be a whiny, accusing one,
nitpicking and obsessive, poking you on the shoulder saying: Look, Goldie
Hawn, nearly sixty. Look, Sharon Stone, slim and elegant, had a baby at
The receptionist says, 'This your first visit?' Her
fingernails are curved like talons, alternately purple and yellow, and you see
they are fake and stuck on with superglue. They are so long she can hardly
write but she can hardly write anyway, breathing laboriously as she prints
your details in big Grade Five letters. Then into the back room and up onto the
crackling paper sheet. Butcher's paper for a slab of meat. You make nervous
'Do you wax guys?' you blurt.
'All the time.' The girl stirs wax implacably, arranges
things on the counter like a dental nurse. 'You'd be surprised.' You lie back.
She chats on.
'Guys come in here, want their backs waxed, their arses.'
'Nope. I do everything. You wouldn't believe it. A week
before Mardi Gras, or when there's a bike race or the City to Surf, I'm booked
Suddenly there is a hot stroke of wax on your shin, a pause,
then blinding pain.
'Haven't had them done for a while, that's why it hurts more.'
'Actually this is my first time ever.'
'Really? Oh well, it won't take long.'
Another rip that brings tears to your eyes.
'Brazilians are all the go now,' she says. 'You want pain,
'Don't tell me.'
She tilts your leg, ices on some more wax, rips it away.
'Yep, everything. Completely hairless. Like a Barbie doll.'
You shudder and lie back, willing it to be over. Like having
a cavity drilled, you try to take your thoughts away. Paul, and what he would
say if he could see you now. Think then about your first argument, the other
night. 'Don't tell me what I'm going to do next,' he'd finally fumed. 'And Jesus,
will you just relax and stop worrying about your weight? How much reassurance do
'I don't need reassurance.'
'Yes, you do. It's so bloody tiring. It's like you've already
decided to end it and you're just waiting for me to slip up so you can blame
You'd opened and closed your mouth like a stunned fish. A
wave of nausea. You'd clenched your jaw, saying nothing. Don't cry, you'd
ordered yourself, don't you dare. Mascara running. Haggard. Lines. Ugly. Old.
'Let's just light a candle then, if you don't want the lamp
on,' he'd said later in bed, at his place. And you'd shaken your head, taken the
matches from him.
'No,' you'd answered. 'Let's not. Really. I like the dark.'
She's up to your groin and you feel the wax getting daubed
around your undies line. She holds the skin taut and pulls. It's excruciating.
'Bloody hell!' you gasp.
'Yeah, the pubic hairs always hurt more deeper roots.'
'And people have the whole lot ripped out?'
'All the time.'
look down at the reddened patch and see tiny prick marks of blood appearing where the hairs have been yanked out.
It feels like you've had a layer of skin torn off. Like you've been peeled.
'God, how could they stand it?'
considers, moving her chewing gum around her mouth. 'They reckon it looks clean.' 'Clean?' 'Sexy. Their
boyfriends ask 'em to do it, they say.' Rip. She's on the other ankle.
Clean, you think.
British Parliament asks Amazon to clarify why it pays $9 million in income tax on $23 billion of UK sales.(May 20 2013) Amazon will be called back to give further evidence to members of the British Parliament "to clarify how its activities in the U.K. justify its low corporate...