Trish peered at my open pores with an intensity that frightened me. After a drawn out sigh and a couple of tuts, she prescribed a skin peel and a detox.Whilst I imagined lying on my bed with a face full of orange peel, Trish explained it really meant applying a beaker of burning acid to my face and then having to stay indoors for a week, so I wouldn't frighten the neighbourhood children. What really worried me,( apart from the apparent need for acid), was the fact that I had only come in to have my hair trimmed and she had felt obliged to offer advice on how to save my obviously knackered skin. Trying to distract her from looking too closely at any other parts of my body, I told her I was a waxing virgin which I knew would stop her in her tracks.
'You've never had a wax before?'� Trish asked incredulously, whilst picking up a strand of my hair and rubbing it between her fingers. 'Only the ones you do yourself at home.'� I lied, thinking it wouldn't make me sound like such a woos. The truth was that the thought of sticking hot wax anywhere near my hairy bits and then ripping it off, put the fear of god into me. The real truth certainly wouldn't have won me any bravery medals in the hair removal stakes. Of course I'd dabbled in the light weight areas: creams, shaving and once, after a bottle and half of red wine, a concerted effort with a pair of tweezers but none of them had left the silky smooth skin I was looking for. Apart from that, one night on the town and you had to start all over again the next day. A friend of mine had had laser treatment, which sounded like the answer to my prayers but seeing her after her thirteenth visit with red, patchy legs and no money for a holiday this side of Christmas, put me right off.

I first began mulling over the idea of having a wax about two years ago. It suddenly occurred to me that now I was a grown woman (very grown, at thirty six); people wouldn't laugh at me if I went into a salon and requested a minor hair removal procedure. I used to be under the impression that these sorts of places were for woman who had sun-beds in their dining rooms instead of tables, (who needed a table when a darker tan could be worked on), and both a summer and winter wardrobe in this seasons colours. When I got used to the idea of admitting I wanted manicured nails, a wax was the next logical step.
So, having given myself permission to engage in what is commonly known as 'pampering'� in glossy magazines, stage one of the operation began. This involved first finding the right salon for the job. It had to be the right mix of not too intimidating but posh enough not to be staffed by sixteen year olds on work experience. Having found a couple of likely candidates, I walked past a few times, pretending to look at the price of hi-lites, whilst really peering through the window trying to see past the potted plants. Not really knowing what I expected to see, obviously not someone lying on a couch in the middle of the shop having a brazilian, I just had to go on what the receptionist looked like. Unlike cosmetic counter woman, these receptionists, although perfectly made up, have a more healthy air. Always lightly tanned, with hair scraped off the face, (as if they were about to perform a triple by-pass), they exude the confidence that comes with being perfectly groomed all over. If they were any good at their job, they didn't intimidate but sub-consciously suggested that you too could leave the salon a vision of calm, without so much as an eye-lash out of place. Once I had found the shop that I was least intimidated by, (it really didn't have anything to do with it being next door to the chip shop), I began stage two of the operation: deciding 'what to have done'�. The plan could go one of two ways; a light waxing of the upper lip and eyebrows to ease myself in or going the whole hog and wax everything that could possibly sprout hairs, even blonde ones. What one has to consider is that if the process is as painful as it seems, is it likely that more than one visit will occur? With this in mind, perhaps it would be better to book the full torture session, as no matter how painful it becomes, you'll be too embarrassed to leave half way through, thus ensuring a good waxing even on a solitary visit. True, you may be psychologically scarred for life, but for the next six weeks you won't have to worry about your jeans riding up to reveal a hairy calf and I don't mean the baby cow kind. Anyway, in reality, how many times are you going to let a woman with a cupful of hot wax come near your nether regions? Not many, I'll warrant.
After much deliberation and soul searching (a slightly dramatic turn of phrase, I agree), I picked up the phone and, resisting the urge to put on a false voice incase I chickened out, I booked the full torture treatment.

It's the morning of the wax. I'm up early with a nervous, sort of about to sit an exam feeling in my stomach. Shower, hair and it's all I can do to stop myself reaching for the razor. What a disaster that would have been, just off for a wax with nothing to rip out! On with the 'easy access clothes', a final look in the mirror and I'm ready. A few friends have given me some pre-waxing tips. These range from:
1. Take a handful of painkillers half an hour before the event.
2. Conceal a sharp object in the palm of your hand and when it really starts to hurt, dig it in to distract yourself from the pain of being waxed. (Not sure of the logic in that one...)
28. Immediately afterwards, rush as fast as your stinging, red little legs will carry you straight home and have a long lie down with a family size bar of fruit and nut.

I reckon, after reading the list, that if I do all of them, then surely, odds are that a few might help; either that or I'll end up in A&E.

OK, I'm in the car. I'm parking the car. I'm opening the door and it's at this point that the need for silky soft skin seems to have deserted me and a sudden penchant for continental hairiness threatens to overwhelm. My brain seems to have skipped 'fight or flight' mode and instead started a debate testing my stance on several core feminist ideals:
My need to be hair-free is a product of patriarchal conditioning, forcing women to conform to the idea that they are nothing more than objects to be looked at and admired. Instead of conforming to societies ideas of what a woman should look like, I should be asserting my own sense of self, in all my hairy loveliness.
Surprised at my ability to rant a feminist diatribe in a time of emotional crisis I suddenly feel ok. I decide that I want to be hair free and I have made a decision to have the offending hair removed in any way I wish. (I just wish it wasn't so painful! And if I pay them enough, would BUPA do it under general anaesthetic?) I will my legs to move and after looking down and glimpsing a swathe of hair; I open the door and walk up to the counter.
In retrospect, I think it was the way the strip lighting bounced off her polished forehead and seemed to enrich the already too orange tan to new level of fakeness that was my downfall. I looked into her eyes and before I could say 'brazillian wax please,'� I found myself asking if I could make an appointment for some hi-lites. As she scanned the appointment book, I was already backing out the door.
I couldn't do it. I was such a coward. I sat in the car and tried to figure out where it had all gone wrong. Whilst eating the fruit and nut I'd bought to comfort myself after the event, I decided that I just wasn't that sort of girl. The thought of lying there, whilst a woman called Trish loomed over me with a vat of molten wax, well, it's just not on. I'm sure there are thousands of women (and men) out there who find this sorry tale hard to relate to. But, there are many more, the secret unwaxed, who keep quiet about their lack of salon experience. They lay in their baths, wielding their razors and covering up their nicks and cuts, shouting 'hooray!'
So, I sit here with my stubbly calves and creeping bikini line and find that this process has been cathartic. I've voiced a fear and if not exactly overcome it, I've faced it head on and claimed 'It's not for me. Thanks but no thanks.'� From now on I'll keep walking past the salon and head straight into Boots to buy a new razor. I may sneak a look at the DIY waxing products, just for interest and when I'm at the checkout I' ll pop another family size fruit and nut in my basket, to eat in the bath as I scrape away at my legs with painless ease.

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