Thursday, August 30, 2012

Laser Hair Removal: Go Fourth and Prosper

See what I did there?  Go fourth... like forth... get it?

Okay, I'll quit explaining my jokes like Mr. Incredible does....

This past Tuesday was my fourth session of laser hair removal.

Because it's me, and because I can't go anywhere without some kind of calamity following me, I have another story.

Yeah, I couldn't believe I would still have a story after the fourth session either.

It all started as I arrived at the med spa.  I pulled in, parked, chose to take the stairs (see?  I did something for derby today... and that will be lost on most of you...), and approached the door.

I can hear the television through the door.  It runs on a loop and tells you all about the myriad procedures you really NEED because you are getting OLD and OLD is SURELY a DISEASE and a FAILURE and something you should AVOID at ALL costs (I was having fun with caps.  I'm probably done for right now).  Anyway, it's essentially a commercial that points out everything that is wrong with you and plays on every insecurity you may have.  It's interesting to sit in the waiting area and watch the other women respond to the information on the screen.  During the segment on facial resurfacing, I once watched a woman pull a compact out of her purse and look at her crow's feet.  And then smile and frown.  And smile and frown.  She was checking to see if she needed the procedure based upon the images she had just seen.  She didn't, although I'm pretty sure she thought she did.  She looked like she was about 30, and she had Plano Barbie Trophy Wife written all over her--crazy expensive shoes and purse, giant rock that made her hand drag the ground with its weight, size 25 bling jeans, and long, stick straight blond hair.  She was gorgeous and needed nothing, but I'll bet she has bought a package of facial resurfacing.

I've gotten really off track and I'm going to get off the soapbox now, too...

So....  Standing at the door of the med-spa, I stuck my hand out and grasped the handle.  I tried to turn the handle.  Nothing happened.  I jiggled it a little.  It didn't turn.  I took my hand off the handle and looked at it.  Then, I tried again because surely I did not drive all the way to Plano to find that no one was there and the door was locked.  Ahem... I tried to open that door three times.  It was still as locked as it was the first time, and I'm not sure why I thought it would change.  I guess I was checking to make sure I still knew how to open a door.

The door was locked.  I knocked.  No one answered.  I knocked again.  I stood there in the hallway listening through the door to the soothing voice tell me that I had unsightly spider veins and that no man could possibly ever be attracted to anyone who had such an imperfection on her body.  It was 10:55, and my appointment was supposed to be at 11.  I decided to call the aesthetician directly. 

Well, although I know I have called before, I quickly realized that I had never saved the number to my phone.  And I had no appointment card to refer to because I always put the appointment in the calendar on my phone.  I had to Google it.  And the connection was slow.  Eventually, I found the number and dialed it.

Two rings.

"Hello.  Med-Spa.  This is [Aesthetician].  How can I help you"

I replied, "Hello.  This is [Reckless Housewife].  I have an appointment at 11.  I'm standing in the hallway because the door is locked."

She giggled.  "Oh, I'm so sorry."  And then I could hear her rushing toward the door to unlock and open it for me.

And she did what I did.  She tried the handle several times because she was sure it couldn't possibly be locked.  It had been locked though.  She apologized profusely and said someone must have turned the lock as they exited.  She looked embarrassed and perplexed.

I was just thankful that I had not driven to Plano for nothing.  Or to find that my Med-Spa had gone under and run off into the night with the balance of my package. 

I sat for a moment, and then she called me into the room.

She asked me about the results of the previous treatment.  I explained that I had only had to do a minimal amount of shaving ONCE since I had been in.  It's really working.  She looked pleased and surprised.  She began the treatment.  Zap, zap, zap. 

She stopped.  "I'm going to turn it up a little.  If it is too painful, tell me.  I'll turn it back down."

Zap, zap, zap.

"Your pain tolerance level is very high. You are good at this."

Well, it's nice to be told you are good at something, but not wimpering while having your hair follicles singed to death is probably not going to rank among the accomplishment of which I am most proud.    

Zap, zap, zap.

"Why aren't you getting full hair removal?"

BROKEN FREAKING RECORD. 

Seriously?  She remembers that I play roller derby and am generally covered with bruises on my thighs and calves, but she can't remember that I DON'T WANT TO LOOK LIKE A PREPUBESCENT GIRL. 

So I say, "I don't want to look like I'm nine.  And my husband doesn't want me to look like I'm nine either."  Hmphf!  Why am I explaining myself to this lady?  Again?

(I'm going to follow a little side path off the main trail here for a minute: Let's talk about pubic hair.  Most adults have it naturally.  A few people I know of Native American ancestry are pretty much sans hair down there.  But, it's textbook for most of us who have navigated the painfully awkward waters of puberty.  Although I think it fine if women (or men) want to change the landscape, so to speak, and mix it up by taking it all off or changing the outline from time to time, I want to know what is with the current cultural push for women to be entirely hair free.  I really don't get it.  I figure God put that hair there for a reason.  I have no real idea what it is, and it can be a little annoying at times. That is beside the point.  I look at the arrangement of a woman's body and think, "Hey, this patch of hair down there is like a arrow that says, 'Here.  Right here.  This is where the good stuff lies hidden.'"  I may just be old and old-fashioned. 

I'm there at the Med-Spa getting a little taken off the edges because I get embarrassed beyond measure when I'm at the pool and look down to see that something is hanging out of my suit.  I realize no one is has probably noticed or cared, but this goes back to high school when I NEVER went to the beach without a razor in my beach bag.  I was known to RUN to the bathroom if a hair was visible and scrape it off.  I would have been mortified for a BOY to know without a shadow of a doubt that I had pubic hair.  If he imagined it in his head, I could do nothing about it, but if he saw it with his own eyes surely I would fall over dead of embarrassment.  My then D cup breasts were certainly enough of a sign that I was maturing in the normal course; I didn't need to show anything that wasn't protuding from my chest. 

And all that may go hand-in-hand with the time one of the boys I liked and his two friends accidentally pantsed me as they were dragging an unwilling me into the ocean.  I was fighting going into the cold Pacific with all my 110 pound might.  Which may have caused my bottoms to fall down to my knees exposing my lower half to the multitudes on the beach at T-Street on a Sunday afternoon and most of my youth group from church.  And the boys may have all dropped me onto the sand and turned their heads away.  And we may have never spoken of the event and pretended it didn't happen.  But it did.  And it apparently scarred me for life. 

Or not. 

As a forty-one year old, I have the wallet and the technology to change this for myself.  I don't have to carry a razor and later have that sensitive skin broken out with a razor burn that looks infectious.  I don't have to smell Nair.  I don't have to have my hair pulled out at the roots every few weeks. I can remove the troublesome hair and live my life.

I realize that my choice is not for everyone.  If it doesn't bother you to have the hair that is growing down to your knees out and about for the whole beach or pool or lake to see, good for you.  That's a no-can-do for me, and I will continue to shave my armpits until I die, too!

Aside finished.      

Back to our regularly scheduled programming...)
  

And then she tries to sell me on facial resurfacing. 


ARGH! (In my head, this sounds just like it did when Charlie Brown screamed it.)


I say no.  I think my skin is just fine.  "However, I will book an appointment for a plain old European facial for next Friday."

Just so you know, a facial is my favorite pleasure at the spa.  Feel free to gift me in this capacity at any time.  It feels great, and there is no nudity whatsoever.

Zap, zap, zap.

The procedure is complete.  And she didn't even tell me I was going to need more than six treatments. 

ROCK ON! 

Finally, she doesn't call me Sasquatch to my face. 

Small victories, people.  Small victories.

No comments:

Post a Comment