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Number 194 on Whitney’s Rules of Life: Never attempt a home bikini wax.

I’m all about do-it-yourself beauty. I happily do my own highlights, pedicures and eyebrow shaping. I adore those facials-in-a-box they’ve recently started marketing. But I should have drawn the line at home waxing.

I can’t even remember why I thought I needed a bikini wax. Razors have been working just fine for me for the past twenty-odd years. And it’s not like I spend my days lounging around in a bathing suit.

But for some reason, I decided It Was Time. And rather than booking an appointment at a salon, like a normal, sane person would do, I picked up a box of Sally Hansen extra strength wax at the drugstore. Yesterday, once George took Sam off to the library – I did think this through enough to decide that waxing would be difficult and messy enough, without adding a preschool audience to the ordeal – I got down to business.

I have had a bikini wax before, although that was nearly twenty years ago. I vaguely remembered it being painful but not unbearable. And since than, I’ve dealt with pregnancy and a Caesarian, so I figured the pain would be well within the threshold of what I could bear. After all, if Paris Hilton could do it – and she takes off way more than I was planning to – I could certainly handle it.

After heating the wax in the microwave, I spread some on the top of my thigh, slapped down the waxing strip, patted it, and without pausing, RIIIIIIIIP.

I didn’t wait for the pain to register. I soldiered on. Wax, strip, RIIIIIIIP. Wax, strip, RIIIIIIIIP.

It was after the third attempt, that the pain started to sink in. And it suddenly occurred to me that ripping large sections of hair off a fairly sensitive area of my body Really Fucking Hurts.

Keep going, I told myself. You can do this.

So I bravely slapped down another section of wax, patted on a strip . . . and completely chickened out. By this point, the already waxed areas were burning, red and bruised. And I had a long, long way to go before I was done. Yes, it was probably less painful than having a c-section . . . but I’d somehow forgotten that when having the surgery, they give you a spinal and numb you from the waist down. And then provide lots of nice, strong pain killers afterwards.

This was a bad idea, I realized. It was time to abort the mission.

But there was still that last strip to rip off. The only thing was, I couldn’t bring myself to do it, now that I was aware just how much it would hurt. Finally, I slowly peeled it off, which had the desired effect of not ripping out any more hair . . . but also left a huge section of now-drying wax stuck to my upper thigh. I picked at the wax, and rubbed it with the removal oil from the kit, but it wouldn’t budge. It took another half hour of scrubbing my already raw skin to get the damn wax off. And then after I put my jeans on, I realized – as the fabric stuck to my legs – that I still hadn’t gotten it all off.

But I’ve learned my lesson. No more home bikini waxes for me. Hell, no more waxing period, unless I can somehow talk the salon into giving me a nice spinal first. Or maybe a few shots of Tequila.

And if you ever find yourself thinking, “If Paris Hilton can do it . . .,” STOP RIGHT THERE. Trust me on this one. It’s not a good path to wander down.

Posted 30 September 2007 at 10:58 AM