Naked fruit

Feeling shy but determined to rid my body of any hair that could poke through my ivory sheath of a dress, I subjected my self to body waxing at a Divison Street salon on Saturday.

Pause while I swallow a yelp.

The pain. How can I describe it? It was like being a child covered in scabs, crying each time a Band-Aid is swiftly ripped off, sacrificing tufts of unsuspecting hairs.

But, I am proud to say I did not cuss or cry. Flinched, yes. A gasp or two, of course. But no tears. Until I got home, anyway.

The damn waxing didn't work. It was all pain and no gain for these white legs. Apparently a weeks worth of stubble wasn't long enough to actually take to the wax. So I am left with a rash and my natural cactus texture.

The jury is still out on the parts only Kelley can see. Well, Kelley and the surprisingly hot Albanian salon technician who had me in yoga poses, with my knees on my chest, so she could do "the back."

Uh, what?

I wish I could replicate exactly what she said and how she said it. But the upshot was that some ladies don't do "the back" because, well, it is private. When they get home and look in the mirror, everything is sleek except for "the back" and they get very surprised and grossed out.

Oh boy. Being a girl is hard.

Bottom line: I think getting a tattoo may be more comfortable than waxing, but I will go back because the waxing lady was pretty and I am determined to kill every last little hair follicle on my body.

Also of note: While laying all exposed on the waxing table, I was told that red hair is "the worst." Tough little red buggers, those Irish hair follicles. Just so you know.