To my friend Yashodhan, who will get this in his mail since he knows jack shit about reading feeds.
The Navy Ball was ordinary. I looked OK, had an ok time. Yana Gupta and the I-Have-One-Expression:the-Pout-Kim Sharma performed. Yana Gupta SMOLDERED, Kim S was little more than a busty clodhopper in shimmery clothes. The girl made Navy Queen was poised but lacked spunk. Still, pretty etc.
We didn't have escorts. How pathetic, to blame what went wrong on not having half-decent male company. The (she) friend and I danced. But how much can you do even that without preppy boys coming up to you and cheesily asking if you're alone and or for the pleasure of this dance. 'Pleasure of this dance'. Phbt! Turns out people still say that. (Say/ask..)
I'm bored even thinking about it. All that's left to show for the evening is shoe bite.
Got waxed earlier in the day. Which is when I realised my patience is running thinner each passing year, and every visit to the parlour. I find it a hugely tedious activity. I don't mind the pain of yanking and sundry plucking -- one gets immune to those pesky inconveniences, it's just that the whole exercise drives me a little batty, and I keep vowing to myself: no more, never again, blahh blaa. But razing isn't an option ("be a woman feel like a man") and bleach/ hair removal creams smell like offal, leave skin darkened, and are wa-ay too chemical-y.
And so I'm beginning to thank my stars for what I once perceived was brutality on mother's part. Years ago, she hauled a 9 year old me to the loo, brandishing a dull knife. (How the hell was I supposed to know what was in store; little children, me included were less suspicions back then.) And so mommy not too kindly, and just a little impatiently started slathering me ( her hairy lil bear cub) with this steaming golden wax, placed one cloth strip on my skin after another, and, yeowwwl!, strip is yanked, tears have flowed, skin is hair free, all is well.
It's after early efficiency of that brutal sort that I today have ( less hair but ) no patience with slow-poke waxing ladies that are just too bloody careful. I figure I'm ruined me for life. And I can't get pedicures done either. I think it's demeaning to have someone (often older than you) remove filth from your toes. To combat which mental hurdle, I have my own pedicure set, and I quite enjoying cleaning my own feet. I mean, come on, unless invalid, we don't usually get someone to brush our teeth for us, do we.
(end of ((this)) rant)
The Navy Ball was ordinary. I looked OK, had an ok time. Yana Gupta and the I-Have-One-Expression:the-Pout-Kim Sharma performed. Yana Gupta SMOLDERED, Kim S was little more than a busty clodhopper in shimmery clothes. The girl made Navy Queen was poised but lacked spunk. Still, pretty etc.
We didn't have escorts. How pathetic, to blame what went wrong on not having half-decent male company. The (she) friend and I danced. But how much can you do even that without preppy boys coming up to you and cheesily asking if you're alone and or for the pleasure of this dance. 'Pleasure of this dance'. Phbt! Turns out people still say that. (Say/ask..)
I'm bored even thinking about it. All that's left to show for the evening is shoe bite.
Got waxed earlier in the day. Which is when I realised my patience is running thinner each passing year, and every visit to the parlour. I find it a hugely tedious activity. I don't mind the pain of yanking and sundry plucking -- one gets immune to those pesky inconveniences, it's just that the whole exercise drives me a little batty, and I keep vowing to myself: no more, never again, blahh blaa. But razing isn't an option ("be a woman feel like a man") and bleach/ hair removal creams smell like offal, leave skin darkened, and are wa-ay too chemical-y.
And so I'm beginning to thank my stars for what I once perceived was brutality on mother's part. Years ago, she hauled a 9 year old me to the loo, brandishing a dull knife. (How the hell was I supposed to know what was in store; little children, me included were less suspicions back then.) And so mommy not too kindly, and just a little impatiently started slathering me ( her hairy lil bear cub) with this steaming golden wax, placed one cloth strip on my skin after another, and, yeowwwl!, strip is yanked, tears have flowed, skin is hair free, all is well.
It's after early efficiency of that brutal sort that I today have ( less hair but ) no patience with slow-poke waxing ladies that are just too bloody careful. I figure I'm ruined me for life. And I can't get pedicures done either. I think it's demeaning to have someone (often older than you) remove filth from your toes. To combat which mental hurdle, I have my own pedicure set, and I quite enjoying cleaning my own feet. I mean, come on, unless invalid, we don't usually get someone to brush our teeth for us, do we.
(end of ((this)) rant)
4 comments:
How strange. Aren't girls (especially non-Navy girls) supposed to find such old-school behaviour romantic and charming?
Can't you wax yourself? And pretty cool mom, I say! 9!
I've always wondered what exactly they do in a pedicure. Should look it up... I can get one once I begin working, perhaps.
Yea yea, but this charm and romance has to come form half-decent quarters as well na.
You can wax yourself. Legs are easier done, arms are less convenient.
Try it once. If only to appreciate clean female forms in a new light.
And getting a pedicure is a luxury but a foot massages ranks higher in my books. Nothing like one followed by the other though..sigh
Going to dream on now.
Hmm... sounds like getting a haircut and then a head massage...
Ever seen a guy get a pedicure? If I went, would they remove my foot hair?
are you too a child of the services then?
indeed, Kim Sharma is rather a depressing sort of person, comic almost.
I agree with you, word to word about the waxing, it really isn't the pain itself it is the WHY, why i must i do this, that as you so aptly said, drives one 'batty'.
love your style,
post more often please!
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