To Be Waxed

Why do women pay to be tortured with hot wax and burning chemicals?

What is this madness, this perpetual struggle to be as beautiful as possible, with the aid of expensive potions and treatments that promise to change the face and body into another Other, apart from all that is natural, what we were born with?

Every other week, I fork out 300 pesos to have the hair burned off my face, 600 to do the same to my legs. Every three months, I allow people to irritate my scalp with harsh chemicals that are used to change my hair's natural black color to whatever tint I fancy (red? blonde? light brown? but never blue!). In fact, I'm grateful to them for it, then proceed to pay them in excess of a thousand or so, excluding tips. And have I mentioned how much I pay for a haircut? You don't want to know. Frankly, neither do I, so when they hand me the bill I turn it face down, hold out a credit card, and pretend like nothing's happening.

That's what I did this afternoon. After they dismissed us at work early because of the national transport strike, I went to Franck Provost on Jupiter St., Makati. Four hours later, I am now light auburn. Put another way: my hair's the color of honey fresh from the hive. This doesn't cancel out the fact that my head hurts from the assistant's aggressive "massage". That, and I'll have to semi-starve till the end of the month.

I'd like to shake my fist at this appearance-obssessed society and say fuck you! i love my body, unibrow, dark pits, bilbils and all! i don't care what Christian fucking Dior thinks! who the hell is he to tell me what to look like, what to wear, what to be?! And some part of me does try that - when I write for publications I make a conscious effort at subtle subversion, the slight slap at oppressive conventions we've come to regard as perfectly natural (i.e. whitening, liposuction, botox injections, etc.). But after work, you'll also find me at the hippest salons and boutiques, waxing and coloring and having manicures and pedicures, spending gobs of money on lipsticks and lotions, money that should have gone to my savings fund for trips to Europe (or at least, Italy and Spain) and investments in future businesses (the bookstore/cafe, the Big is Beautiful magazine, et al.).

So there it is - I'm a hypocrite. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to have a bikini wax. Do you know how much that hurts? Think: 12 times less painful than childbirth, or 12 times more agonizing than an open wound anywhere else. Ouch.

I'm not going to the beach anytime soon, but it's better to be prepared in case George Clooney drops by.