Home ill with That Cold, today.
You know the cold I mean, 'cause you've already had it, and for all I know, YOU GAVE IT TO ME.
Anyway, I don't much feel like being funny/clever/bloggy, but felt I had to share with you this horror wax story that a fellow beauty editor, Shones, emailed me. (Thanks Shones.)
It's not the first gnarly waxing tale I've heard; there are so many nasty, nasty unfair things that can happen if the hygiene or waxing capabilities of the waxer is rubbish. Bad things. Life-threatening things. Amputation things.
So let this be a lesson that a cheap, quick wax is never worth it. Spend 20 clams more and get it done right.
Let this also be a lesson that if you feel the girl doing you is doing it wrong, (it's hurting, she's shaking and sweating and praying under her breath) speak up and ask for the manager to take over. Alternatively, simply slap her on the forehead, put your clothes back on and leave.
(If anyone wants the number for my waxer, who is The Best Waxer in The Universe, email me.)
