Bring back Afro-muffs!


Why would strong, intelligent, self-sufficient women allow the 1970’s hairy muffs to fade out of vogue??!!

It’s been some time since I’ve had a bikini wax.  In fact, the last time I endured this torture, the term “Brazilian wax” was just beginning to be uttered – and was consider too risqué by the salon I  frequented.  Don’t misunderstand – my boxwood is finely pruned, but I’ve been a home gardener for the last five or six years.

Well, it’s the guy’s birthday this weekend, so I thought I’d surprise him with a professional hair cut. I had an appointment last night for a “playboy wax”.

When I arrive at the salon, I’m ushered into a dimly lit room and told to undress – shoes, pants and panties. I still have my silk work blouse on. I hop up on the table, scooting my hooha toward the foot with my head on a bolster. The esthetician walks in, flips on an incredibly bright spotlight pointed directly at my nappy dugout and spreads my knees.  No time for long introductions, show me your goods and let’s get down to business. Warm wax is smoothed on a patch.  The feeling is quite pleasant – like warm maple syrup.  A cloth strip is placed over the wax, gently, lovingly and then – RIP!!!  A huge snatch patch is torn out by the roots.  Over and over again, warm wax, soft strip, RIP!!   I try not to flinch, but I know the RIP!! is coming and I feel like I’m jumping an inch off the table. The patch of hair never comes out completely clean, so she reapplies the strip over the same spot to remove the stragglers. There’s a rhythm to it – wax (nice!), strip (also nice) RIP!! (pain), rip (pain), rip (pain) rip (pain).  I try to breathe, relax, close my eyes….but, oh this just isn’t a normal trip to the spa! “Now for the Yoga,” she says in her thick Russian accent.  “Yoga?” I think, “what’s this?  I get yoga with my torture?  Hasn’t she done all she needs to do down there?” My knees go above my head, I grab the back of my thighs – she’s got a full view of my kit – and my caboodle!  I’m made baby smooth – with all modesty discarded.

Twenty minutes later, I’m sore and a bit raw with sticky wax remnants in the danger zone (“no, I’m fine.  No need to clean there”). She’s left me with just an inch of landing strip. Yes, I paid money for this and, yes, I tip her as well.

Allegorically Chocolate

There’s a girl I know who likes chocolate.  Truth be told, she is currently enamored by chocolate.  She indulged in chocolate years ago, but it is verboten to her today. Nevertheless, she visits the chocolate store every day, many times a day.  She smells the coco liquor in the air and smiles.  She admires the bonbons behind the glass, tiny gems filled with magnificent crèmes and caramels.  She sighs as she recalls the feel of coco butter melting in her mouth. She dreams of gorging herself on chocolates, unrestrained.   She treasures her time in the shop, but it is also maddening for her.  Why does she torture herself so?  She is convinced that, very soon, the store’s proprietress will notice her loitering and banish her from the store forever.  This rupture will leave her hollow.  In the meantime, she is tantalized.  She believes her resolve is absolute; she will never falter and succumb to her desire, but is it sound to surround herself with so much temptation?  Wouldn’t it be better for her to fall smitten for donuts?  She has no restrictions on donuts, but donuts don’t interest her now.