So based on the wise comment from Ginger on my previous post about waxing my legs, I decided that rather than attempt it again myself, I would defer to an expert. Going into this, I realized that I know next to nothing about professional leg waxing, so I decided it would be a good topic for tonight’s writing exercise.

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In looking for a place to help me out with this basic female hygiene item, I discovered that there are two kinds of places out there that do waxing: spa salons and standard nail salons. The former seem to literally charge you twice as much to rip your leg hair out by the roots in a pretty and serene-smelling room with soft music playing. The latter is a bit less glamorous and a lot less expensive, ripping out your leg hair in a slightly tired looking mint green room that is a combination “treatment room” and storage closet for all the products needed for the nail spa outside, playing a too-loud and overwrought piano collection of The Fifty Greatest Love Songs of All Time.

Naturally being a cheapskate, I went with the latter. I actually don’t regret this decision, since really you’re paying someone to cause you massive discomfort, and being uncomfortable in a plain room versus a lush one doesn’t much matter to me.

I booked the appointment for my lunch break, having been told by the aforementioned Ginger that I should plan to spend about half an hour on this project. I wore jeans and boots to work, and realized that I had no idea how to dress for this sort of project. So I brought a pair of work out crops with me, figuring that they’d be more easily rolled up and maneuvered around, as long as there was somewhere for me to change. Shorts probably would have made more sense, but this was a last minute decision on my part and my entire shorts collection was dirty (a whopping three pairs).

The nice lady named Lynn didn’t look at me too strangely when I announced upon my arrival that I needed to change, so I suppose this request wasn’t that odd after all. Score one for me looking like I know what I’m doing. Then I got settled lying back on what seemed like a doctor’s examination bed covered in towels and butcher paper, and Lynn went to work. She was very friendly. The wax was bright green and smelled vaguely of eucalyptus, and it went on in a very thin layer. Then she used fabric strips that she pressed down on the applied wax, smoothed in place, and ripped up very efficiently with no advance notice. When I do this myself, see, I count to three and breathe out when I pull off the wax, so that part caught me initially unprepared (and was therefore rather ouchie). But it got better as I learned her rythym a bit more. I asked about the fabric, and she said it has to be 100% cotton, but that’s the only rule — she gets a big bolt of unbleached muslin at wal-mart and cuts it up herself. We chatted about life and work and her kids, who sound adorable. The conversation got really stilted when we got to the backs of my calves, which are oddly sensitive, I’ve learned. They’re still stinging.

After having my lower legs tilted and turned all sorts of odd directions, the process was over. Lynn used some mineral oil to remove any wax residue, and I was all set. I gingerly changed back into my trouser socks and jeans to the grand crescendo at the end of a piano cover of Whitney Houston’s cover of I Will Always Love You (I could tell because it had all the superfluous musical noodling at the end). I sauntered out of the treatment room, paid out, and that was that. I’m glad I wore pants after all, because my legs are still sporting little red dots that should be gone by morning.

So there ya go. That’s what it was like, in case you’re ever wondering. Will I go back? Sure thing. Does it hurt? Yes. A lot? Well, it’s nothing like labor or breaking a toe or even a really nasty paper cut. So you’re probably pretty safe.