Were you one of those unfortunate women a few years ago who burned their neck with a curling iron? A few trips to the hair dresser and we took note that “Hey, they put the comb between my head and the curling iron, like a shield!” I have memories of many, many friends with big hickey like burns on their necks, their foreheads, their palms...yes, palms. A result of grabbing the curling iron as it slid off the bathroom sink.
I haven’t used a curling iron in years, however, a couple weeks ago an equally freakish and ridiculously stupid burn happened to my décolletage. You see - and this is for you young women who have yet to experience the joys of menopause, as well as for my peeps, who can relate - when you pass a certain age, along with male pattern baldness, you can begin to “sprout little tiny hairs all out your face” (that was either Steve Martin or Bill Cosby, Google it) and they can be a bit embarrassing. So, a solution is to wax. Now, a lot of us allow a professional to perform this barbaric act, but there are also women of pioneer stock such as myself who will attempt this torture on their own. I have wax and I have a microwave.
Usually, this goes pretty well. Oh, its uncomfortable for a brief period, but I’m careful, making sure the wax is warmed to the consistency of honey, like it says on the instructions. Sometimes it has "hot spots" but that's why you stir it, and it cools a bit as I move to the bathroom mirror. Its over and done with in a quick few minutes and I’m on my way. I’ve learned how to put it in the microwave and stir it, and put it back in, and stir it, and put it back in, then stir it. The problem came about because, well, I guess because it has reduced in volume through using it for a few months and this last time, that last microwave spin created a bubble at the bottom of the cup.
So, I began to stir with the plastic tongue depressor thingy that came with the bright blue wax but the bubble was there and it “popped”. Much like lava in a volcano and hot wax jettisoned out of the cup and onto my chest. I mean it hurt like H.E. double hockey sticks ladies and gentlemen, and I’m not even kidding. I knew it was hurling towards me and I ducked, if that’s even possible and some how avoided my face. I turned my head, too, and wax flung itself into my hair.
I spent the next few minutes peeling wax off my chest before I realized it was also skin. Ew. That’s gross. I also had to cut chunks of hardened wax out of my hair (sorry Rhonda, who styled my hair the day before). I looked down at a favorite deep magenta tank top, now splattered with bright blue wax. Durn.
I didn’t cry. I have cried more when pulling the wax off my upper lip than peeling it off my chest, which included skin! Now, it hurt but how can little tiny hairs hurt so much more? Some of it probably was the adrenaline and the need to get the wax off me was kind of in charge. Anyway, a few days of neosporine and a vitamin E drop or two and my wounds are healed although they might scar a little. The top went to the garbage, the hair has blended in and I scraped the wax off the kitchen floor.
That night, as I relayed the day's events to hubs, I pulled back the neck of my shirt to show him the burns and he was horrified, empathetic and sweet. And dumbfounded. “Wait, you put hot wax on your lip?” Innocent babe.
It is time for me to wax and I looked at that cup yesterday for a long, long time and decided against it. I may just have a full Magnum P.I. by Thanksgiving.
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