Let’s start out here with the obvious. Waxing is just a monstrosity. There are those errant women who will be like “I love getting on all fours so some Eastern European woman can put hot strips of fabric against my grundle and tear out all the precious baby hairs who never did anything wrong, it’s so invigorating!” But those women are cyborgs, and they shoot titanium bullets from their nipples. For most of us, the entire experience is just one giant emotional trauma, and when you get that first lil patch taken up you’re immediately like “Wow, that was awful, glad that’s over! Can’t wait to see my shiny new cooter!” except that was only the first one. You have about 30 left to go before you can go home and ice yourself up like your vagina just took a fall in a boxing match. It’s the worst, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
It seems innocuous, but any woman who has overshot the sweet spot on the facial exfoliant front knows that that shit is unforgiving. I recently acquired a Clairsonic Mia (for those who don’t know, it’s essentially a giant electric toothbrush for your face to get up all the sweat/makeup/dead skin cells and leave you feeling fresh and baby-like). When used properly, it is a gentle vibration that leaves you nice and cleansed. When you bear down on the machine or, like some poor girl who advised me on my blog, bear down whilst using an exfoliating cleanser which is strictly verboten for a reason, you end up with a face about as red and raw as a freshly-opened pomegranate. The moisturizer you apply afterwards will be a thousand relentless knives punishing you for your capriciousness, and your exposure to wind/sun/water/air/the belittling looks of others will from then on be akin to taking some sandpaper to the inside of your thighs. Exfoliating is a tool to be used with discretion.
You know that feeling when you’re about to sneeze but you can’t really and your eyes start watering and all your sinuses are a-tickle and you just want to leap off the nearest ledge to end this horrifying Dance of the Facial Holes? That is what happens every time you get one of the particularly saucy inner-eyebrow hairs, right near the bridge of the nose. Those little shits do not go without a fight.
Don’t judge that older woman who is wearing sandals and whose entire inner ball of the foot area is just a giant, distorted corn/bone growth. She acquired said lumps from wearing heels like a trooper to look fabulous as hell and get that perfect calf that only a certain foot-angle can provide. She did it for the betterment of society, and we owe her a debt. When you see that drunk girl who is holding a box of McNuggets in one hand and her “going out” shoes in the other, walking down a city street littered with broken glass and used needles, appreciate her effort. She has been dancing on modified foot knives for the past four hours, and she deserves a little break. We have all developed the perfect combination of cushions, band-aids, and planning our evening’s activities so as to never be walking too much. We know which heels are basically just cuter flats in terms of comfort, and which ones are so beautiful that they merit turning your leg region into a circus of Theon Greyjoy-esque torture-pain. The sacrifices are real, but worth it.
5. Modified hair
I’ve never dyed my hair, but I’ve seen enough of my girlfriends who underestimated the bleaching process enough to burn off half their scalp to know. I have gotten 10 inches of my comically-thick hair gotten off only to realize that my head had been tilted several degrees backwards for the past ten months because I couldn’t quite hold it upright. We have all gone for that teased look to get some of that fantastic volume that everyone loves so much, only to realize it turns your entire head into a bird’s nest of knots and pain and struggle for the next several days. Beautiful hair comes at a price, and never believe otherwise.
6. Crotch razor burn
Let’s get real here for a second: I know men deal with razor burn, but you don’t regularly deal with that shit on your wiener. The thing about the bare/landing strip/triangle/reasonably trimmed look is that it’s only going to be good for about two days. If you are going on a promising date, you have to time that shit with the precision of a Swiss watch. Undershoot it by a day and you are in full-on Itchy Cactus Mode for that precious first sexual encounter, and you’re gonna spend that entire dinner thinking about how much you regret ever having bought that cheap disposable razor and going against the grain because you were in a hurry. That shit is no joke, and it is something we must navigate on a bi-weekly basis. (That is, if someone is regularly seeing our business. If not, LOL please no we are not shaving that mess).
7. Bras in general
Women are home only when they take off their bra, throw it unceremoniously across the room, rub their sore lil underboobie area, and chill out while those horrible red marks fade away. Until then, and not a moment before, we have not truly arrived in our safe zone.