The Return of Bigfoot

I just got back from having my hair cut.  The deal I'd found online included a lip or brow waxing.  After staring at me for a few minutes, the hairdresser decided I could use both.



OK, yes: I'm hairy.  I've admitted it before.  But I've never paid a professional to wax me, so admitting to my hairiness, face-to-face, could have been humiliating.

I chose not to allow myself to feel embarrassed, however, deciding to embrace the "natural" changes my body seems to be going through.

As I followed the hairdresser to her Waxing Station, I was actually congratulating myself on having such a healthy response to this hair-removal necessitation.

I stayed proud of myself as the hairdresser applied goo to either side of my upper lip, pressed down with a cloth, then mercilessly ripped said goo-and-hair-covered cloth back off. 

I hummed as she applied goo to my left eyebrow, and then started on my right.
 
And then she paused.  "Humph," she muttered, "I'm going to need more wax."

Which is just something that no woman with a tenuous grasp on her self-worth really wants to hear.