To Wax or Not to Wax — That Was the Bloody Question

 

To Wax or Not to Wax — That Was the Bloody Question

Picture it.

I’m already super poorly. I don’t have a science degree. I can’t even say sinusitis properly. I didn’t know I had a neck ache until it was too late.

And it’s Vegas.

The massage felt like the man had just finished on the slot machines and wandered over to give me a rub‑down. The head massage was… something. He drenched my hair in oil, scrubbed my scalp like he was trying to win a prize, and when I looked in the mirror I looked like I’d stepped straight out of the late 1980s — perm, hot oil, the lot.

Then came the waxing.

When I say I was unprepared, I mean UNPREPARED. No one tells you that being waxed when you’re already unwell is a terrible idea. No one tells you that being waxed when you’re neurodivergent and menopausal is basically a sensory assault course.

She pulls the first strip. “Oh my God, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Second strip. “No, seriously, you’ve GOT to be kidding me.”

By the third, I’m done. I tell her to stop. She looks mortified. I tell her I cannot believe it hurts this much. She asks about my “level of commitment,” which felt rude because obviously I’m not waxed — she just didn’t get my humour.

And honestly? I was only doing this because I felt like Miranda in Sex and the City, called out by Samantha, the episode where Charlotte has her whole Poughkeepsie‑in‑Poughkeepsie handbag moment.

She stops immediately, bless her, but then she shows me in the mirror and says she can’t leave it like that. I tell her she absolutely can. Do not touch me again. Just get the wax off and let me compose myself. I’m in mortifying pain. It felt like I’d been cut with a razor.

I limp away with whatever dignity I have left.

Then she drops the bomb: I can’t use the spa facilities after waxing because of infection risk.

Infection.

No one told me this. I’d been told I had a whole day to use the spa. I was literally being waxed so I could swim with everyone else on holiday. And now I can’t. My mind blew. The old me would’ve researched this. The current me just thought, “Oh, I’ll get that done.”

Then I remembered my partner. I’d told him that morning I didn’t feel well and it probably wasn’t a good idea. He said, “Yeah yeah, should be fine.” Didn’t really listen. Didn’t really care. And then I got mad, because he could’ve said, “Babe, don’t hurt yourself more than you’re already hurting.” But no. Nothing.

So I was mad at him, mad at the wax, mad at Vegas, mad at my sinuses, mad at my ND‑meno wiring, mad at the universe.

And the lesson?

From now on, it’s all about me. I will never, ever, EVER consider doing that again — well or unwell. Why would anyone do that to themselves.