So M copped a chunky APRA check and was telling me about this song he’d recorded age ago. Ice Cream Hair. So I got to thinking about my hair. Then I re-did my underneath trailer trash blonde roots. That was on Friday night. Also the Waxing Night of Horror. What is the Waxing Night of Horror? Oh. You don’t know? That’s when you’re driving to Geelong the next day with your mates to buy some bathers from the multitudes of surf shops. You’re all excited. The first new bathers in about five years! Then you look down. All you see are Wollemi Pines.[Dad, you really don’t need to read the rest of this…]
The common thread – hair – sends you screaming down the street to Hairhouse Warehouse (or whatever) where, not only do they suggest a combination of dye that might (possibly) create the pinky red hue for which you’ve been searching for a BAZILLION years, but they have MO-FO containers of wax. Proper beautician’s wax. You buy the lot. You go home. You put most of your hair up, but leave the bottom bits down and paint in your trailer trash roots.
Then you have a go at being a HOME WAXER, conveniently forgetting earlier episodes of desperation and despair. Concentrating only on the fact that in the morning you plan to be prancing through changing rooms alongside perky twenty-something freaks wearing nothing. Thank god for older shopping companions. Thank god for my last sweatfest at gym. You stick the wax in the microwave and test it on your wrist. Besides leaving a red mark, and smelling like honey, it seems OK. Until you try to get it off. It’s not coming off. You run your wrist under warm water. Nothing. Hot water. Ow. Nothing. This is not good. There is no way I’m going to stick this anywhere near the Wollemi Pines of my bikini line without knowing how I’m going to get off the inevitable bits that remain behind after the RIP.
I look at the container. It instructs me to use a ‘citrus solvent’ that I don’t have. The only thing even close to resembling a ‘citrus solvent’ that is in the house is orange scented Pine’O’Cleen – which I’m not wholly thrilled about. I try soaking a little bit of rag in Stolichnaya vodka and attempt to dissolve the wax. I smell like a Russian. The wax resists. I think hard. M uses white vinegar to get rid of epoxy resin. I try white vinegar. It seems to work. I’m excited. I’m about to wipe out the old growth forest. My trailer trash roots are still being co-erced into a P.Hilton hue. The rest of my hair is up in a 1980’s Kath and Kim extravaganza. Almost an afro-desiac.
So, I rip my first strip. It’s oddly easy. The wax is nothing like I’ve ever used before. I began ripping with gay abandon. Too gay. Too much abandon. Scary looking bruises begin appearing. Youch. Although, strangely, they didn’t hurt. Over much. It’s horrible. I shut my eyes. Open them again. Go for the underarms. I’m contorted like a pretzel. M decides to come home early. Walks into the bedroom, takes one look and backs out looking hunted.
“Don’t cast your nasturtiums on me!” I shriek, wax crazed.
“Don’t make me your escape goat,” he shouts back.
[Sorry. Too much Kath and Kim.]
I am intent on the destruction of hair. I cease to think. I begin on my legs. Something I haven’t done for many years, preferring the (generally) painless wonder of the DISPOSABLE RAZOR. I almost rip off my toe by accident. Then my shin. It’s truly awful. Now I’m patchy, and all I can do is persevere. I grit my teeth. Then I get to the other leg. I’ve got another leg? WHY? I almost rip off my other toe. And shin. I have bits of uber-sticky chewing-gummmy stuff clinging to bits of me that are best unmentioned. And the majority of my ankle region. It has to come off.
Finally I stagger toward the vinegar. And it hits me. The last thing in the world that I want to put on my stinging ow-y skin is VINEGAR. D’oh. Why did it take me until afterwards to work this out? Has the peroxide entered my brain? Am I now so deficient in thought-processing that I won’t be able to finish my DAW? Goddamnit. But there is no choice. I douse a flannel in white vinegar and begin to scrub. And quickly realise that there has to be a better way. Either a better way or I will remain a magnet for cat fur from now, far, far into the future.
I wander out into the garden, bemoaning my condition. M takes a large swig of beer and averts his eyes. A diplomat. Grass sticks to my feet and refuses to budge. I don’t resort to google. Somewhere in my head I remember a hairdresser using conditioner to remove a hair dye stain. I lather the bits of wax in conditioner. It actually seems to work. I douse myself in conditioner. Most of my torment washes off. Most of it.
I finally remember to wash out the P.Hilton hue. I no longer harbour secret trailer trash roots. I have two shades of hair. I’m too exhausted by my trauma to try for my third shade. Neapolitan? I can wait.