Beauty

It is on the nature of beauty that I found myself pondering whilst lying on the beauticians bed.

As one foot pointed skyward and the other knee towards the wall and the charming Miss S slathered boiling hot wax onto a very tender and sensitive part of my anatomy I thought:

"What the fuck am I doing?"

You see whilst I love most of the palaver that comes with beauty (manicures, pedicures, facials, massages, blow dries, blow outs, hair cuts, hair colours, the magazines, the wait, the idea that everyone in that room is focused on me) I hate, loath and abhor getting waxed. HATE IT. I would love to be living in the 70's when a bush was all you needed to gain access to rude society. I hate that now, generations of men brought up on the porn industry illusion of anal sex and pre-pubescent waxed smooth lady bits, think that anything other than nude is somehow dirty.

You know me, you know me. I love playing games. I love the thrill, the chase, the role play, the "who shall I be today?" I loved getting my hair blown out so that it's all big and blonde. I love feeling feminine and sexy and being a girl. I love feeling like Barbie. But I hate feeling like Barbie down there. It's too sexless, too crude, and I can always hear an ex boyfriend of mine telling me how he hated Brazilian waxes because they always make a woman look like a plucked chicken. I remember him shaking his head gently and saying in a soft but sad voice "wattle."

Ughghhhhhhhh...

So why do I do it? Why do I present myself to the tortures bed every month and smile and chat as I remove my knickers and assume the position?

I don't really have an answer to be honest apart from the fact that there doesn't seem to feel like there's any other option. How sad is that?