The Brazilian

I realise we women go to great lengths in the quest for beauty. And we kid ourselves into thinking that it's for ourselves. I don't think it really is... for us. It's probably for our men, although whether they appreciate it is an entirely different matter. I cannot speak for them all though. I know a man who immediately notices any subtle change, the flash of a new shade of lipstick. And he's appreciative. For that man, I guess I should be thankful. But more often than not, we like the bad boys, the rogues, who make our life difficult, yet interesting. So there I plucked (pun not intended) up my courage and went for a Brazilian. Funny how Brazilians were a regular in my twenties and I could behave and take the pain like a big girl. Somehow it feels different once you hit thirty, the pain triples, and you cannot help your eyes water. Yet, no pain, no gain, that's how the beauty industry works. And with each hair that gets ripped out, follicle and all, you just want to kick the beauty therapist, I mean, kick her hard, knock her out. I've always wondered why they're called beauty therapists. Therapists, therapeutic, therapy, they make me think of this big tent in the aboriginal where pregnant women go there and just sit and be worshipped. So, a beauty sadist would probably be more appropriate. But, it's my choice, our choice, so if we let ourselves in for it, then just like childbirth, we must put up with the labour pains. And my guess is they also don't call them labour for nothing. So, Brazilian over. Kind of looks cute. Thought I'd get a lot of male appreciation for all my hard labour. I didn't. I got the exact opposite. One look of thunder and ok I know that somehow I've blown it. With this type of man it works like this... it's one look and you somehow can hear the thunder and pray to God he'll have mercy. Reasons... because it looks clinical, because it looks childish! Childish?? And there was I thinking it was dead sexy. Perhaps I'll live to tell another tale.