When I was working in Boston, my choices in the hair-removal department were pretty much either (A) a ritzy salon on Newbury Street or (B) a nearby salon in (kinda scuzzy) Downtown Crossing that I could frequent during my lunch break. It was a no-brainer in my book - obviously I was a patron of the cheap salon for my $25 (at most) bikini waxes, along with their frugalriffic $10 manicures and $23 pedicures.
The salon was located on the second floor. So to enter, you had to navigate a narrow staircase on the side of a Foot Locker shoe store. (If you didn't know it was there, you missed it.) Once inside, the pink-haired receptionist would (barely) glance up from filing her nails and motion halfheartedly for me to ascend up the back staircase to where the waxing room and tanning booths were located.
The Room: Think teeny. Think bright sterile light. Think hard table. And oh yeah, me, naked from the waist down. To top it all off? HuDge language barrier. As in, No English Spoken Whatsoever. Picture lots of pantomiming and gesturing as to exactly where/how much hair I desired to be removed from my nether regions. HARDLY cringeworthy.
And so, because of The Language Barrier, there would be absolutely no conversation while the hair-ripping process was going on. Just me, splayed, my modesty left somewhere back at the office.
"Ahhh Kelly Clarkson!"
When the (excruciating) process was done, the "aesthetician" would then THRUST A MIRROR between my legs and brusquely question, "Ok? Good? Done?" To which I would nod meekly and scurry to get myself clothed again.
All for the low, low cost of
But as you know, I am no longer working in Boston. Thus rendering my need for a new salon (only because Hubby and I were going to Maine alone and not because I actually keep up with the wax maintenance during the cold winter months because I certainly don't and as a matter of fact my next wax job probably won't be until at least June...)
Where was I?
Oh right. New salon needed.
This time, instead of looking at prices, I merely chose one I was familiar with. A day spa where I had gotten haircuts and facials prior to the full-time job
It's a nice spa.
Twinkling music greets you as you enter. The technicians are all clothed in similar black attire. No one speaks loudly or harshly. The atmosphere in there is calm, serene, tranquil.
For a wax, you are lead to a separate part of the salon (after being asked if you would like a refreshing drink). In here, the lights are dimmed. Similar soothing music is piped in.
The table is covered with warm towels.
Powder is applied.
The aesthetician makes small-talk with me the entire time. Which is nice because it's distracting. And the more distracted you are, the better, when it comes to that piece of tape being yanked off. (Am I right?!)
Some sort of soothing aloe concoction is given to me to put on afterwards.
The whole process is still uncomfortable, yes, but much less laughably Seinfeld-esque.
Yet it costs me almost double that of the Boston salon at $48.
But this time? My annoying husband's mantra of "You get what you pay for" rings oh-so-very-true, much to my
So in Scarlett O'Hara fashion, I hereby proclaim I shall never skimp on a wax job again!