I know you are not supposed to, really, but there are a few things that my friends possess that I do occasionally covet. Now and then I might wish I had Jaq's awesome figure, or Baggage's constantly cheerful disposition, or B&D's happy relationship.
But, as it turns out, I am coveted among my friends for one thing myself: my lack of hairiness.
Naturally mousey, I rarely defuzz my legs, pluck my eyebrows or take the razor to other tender bits. Close friends regaled tales around the wineglass: stories of IPL and laser removal, ingrown hairs and 70s bushes, and I could only say 'ummmm....'
So a couple of weeks ago I bit the proverbial, asked around, and thought, right, I will give this waxing thing a go. Slightly nervous., I opted for what Baggage called the 'post baby, middle aged' option - a brief bikini. Victoria, the waxer, was exceedingly gentle, told me I did very well, and I was ever so pleased with the result. Lovely and clean and tidy. Now I can join in the conversation.
It strikes me, however, that waxing technicians should take an oath of confidentiality. Jaq came over last night for a cup of tea. She was the one who recommended Victoria in the first place and told me she had been for a visit herself recently. I was aghast that Victoria had blabbed out the fact I was totally nervous and a bit of a pussy (ahem) about the whole procedure.
Is nothing sacred?