Waxing eloquent about body hair

March 27, 2015 06:44 pm | Updated 06:44 pm IST

I have always wondered why there is so much pressure for women to maintain smooth hairless skin.

I belong to a family that depends on coconut oil and its benefits, which cannot be ignored. This would’ve given you a clue as to which part of India I hail from. Though many people may have varying arguments on the benefits of coconut oil, one thing I can say with confidence is that it works wonders to make my skin supple and my hair soft.

However, all this oil, combined with my family heritage, has given me a genetic propensity to have more than the usual amount of body hair. I’ve often heard comments about my unwaxed arms and legs. There have been numerous questions: why can’t you wax, are you allergic, are you trying to make a statement, are you one of those feminists? These are usually followed by suggestions and home “remedies” that range from the usual haldi treatment to someone telling me to scrub myself vigorously with ash and a pumice stone.

Tired of all this drama, I decided to at least give it a shot. My sister’s engagement was around the corner, and I did not have the stomach to face all the well-meaning questions from the entire family which would be in attendance.

And so for the first time, I stepped into the beauty parlour near my house. It seemed like a solemn place — everything was white and clean — where people came to fix all their beauty woes. The regulars were chatting with the beauticians; a couple of ladies were getting pedicures, one had a slightly scary looking face mask with a towel wrapped around her head and yet another was in the process of getting a haircut.

I was quickly ushered by a smiling young girl into a small room and told to change into what she called a gown. Much to my chagrin, it was nothing more than a flimsy dress. I quickly changed before anyone could barge in, all the while wondering how people could wear something like this, more so allow some stranger to see them in this state of undress. To avoid further embarrassment, I attempted to hop on to the table, but found myself a few inches too short. With a burst of effort, I scrambled on just in time to see the door open.

A different woman now approached, armed with hot wax and a rude look on her face. Her first words were, “How hairy are you?” Not a great start. I cringed as she mercilessly spread  the wax on my arms. My protests went unheeded and she yanked the wax strips off. Tears sprang to my eyes. I turned pink, with a spot on my arm that looked burnt, as if to remind me that hairy limbs were illegal.

When she had finished, I was truly relieved and felt my smooth skin, although I looked like a plucked chicken. I felt like I had left a part of myself back at the parlour. 

To this day, I hate waxing so much that I postpone it for months sometimes, but as beholders see no beauty in my hairy self, I give in to peer pressure and go for another session.

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