The problem with being a lipstick lesbian couple is the slight air of competitiveness when it comes to matters of appearance.
BY ROSIE MUSSEN
Before my girlfriend Pearl and I went on our first holiday together, I made the decision that the only way I could maintain the illusion that I was sexy 24/7 was to get a preparatory Hollywood wax. However, the problem with being a lipstick lesbian couple is the slight air of competitiveness when it comes to matters of appearance. Because of this, I was not surprised that when I announced my plan to Pearl, she immediately concluded she would have to do the same.
Now, we wouldn’t be very good lipstick lesbians if we hadn’t decided to go through this ordeal together, would we? Neither of us had been for a wax before, so I made us appointments, one after another, at the same salon. It was recommended to me by my best friend whom I still do not forgive. Pearl volunteered to go first and I wondered vaguely whether this was because she was nervous and wanted to get it over and done with. I cheerfully flicked through a glossy magazine in the waiting area, blissfully unaware of my impending trauma.
Pearl returned to me, fifteen minutes or so later, and kissed me on the cheek. She told me I’d be fine so I optimistically trotted off to spread my legs. I was confident in Pearl’s assurance and chatted away to the beautician while she slathered me with hot wax. It felt warm and soothing and I momentarily forgot what I was there for. It should be noted that I had always considered myself to be someone with a reasonably high pain threshold. Before my appointment, one of my colleagues told me that apparently waxing is often more painful for redheads. I assumed that she was joking or trying to scare me, but now I can confidently cite what came next as one of the most dreadful ordeals I have ever gone through.
When the first wax strip was ripped from my skin it felt like I was being stabbed with a thousand tiny knives. “FUCK!” I exclaimed, sitting up. I was entirely prepared to flee then and there, with hot wax still sticking between my thighs. Then the image of Pearl, perfectly neat and hairless from her own wax, swam into my mind and I somehow found the strength to power through. It only got worse. My eyes pricked with tears and my nails dug deep into the sides of the salon table as she mercilessly tore the stubborn ginger hairs from my most sensitive of areas. It was probably only about five minutes of whimpering and swearing before the beautician politely asked if I’d like to stop, but it felt like a lifetime. For some reason she resolved to pluck out the last few remaining hairs with tweezers, as if somehow that would be less excruciating for me.
When she was done, my skin was raw and covered in spots of blood. I dressed myself, paid and hobbled over to Pearl. Leaving the salon I dissolved into blubbering, post-trauma tears in the middle of the street. Later on I learned that she did not find the waxing half as painful as I did (curse you, ginger gene). Ironically, a year on and somewhat older and wiser, our personal preferences are now such that we have both grown out our hair to sport a far more natural look down below. Although I don’t exclusively attribute this to my distressing experience, I am deeply relieved that it will never need to be repeated.
Only reading DIVA online? You’re missing out. For more news, reviews and commentary, support queer content and buy the latest issue. It’s pretty badass, if we do say so ourselves.
