On waxing (Hollywood v Brazilian)

I’m falling to bits. Really, I’m becoming a wreck of a woman. I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and flinched. My hair is sticking up like a bog-brush; I have no make-up and the start of a spot. I am wearing a huge bright red GAP fleece which clashes revoltingly with my (dyed but with roots showing) red hair and also hurts my conscience as it was most likely sewn together by children being paid 2p a week. I have on my feet a pair of extremely thick pink knitted socks and maroon sheepskin slippers. I look like one of those followers of the Bhagwan or whoever it was (the cult that always wore red and who had sex with anyone). The problem with living in the country (well, this bit) is that there’s nobody there to notice. I used to make a bit of an effort – a smudge of mascara, relatively clean jeans, but now, truth to tell, I can’t be a***d.

The problem is that I haven’t had a visitation from any of my city friends for about two months. Verity, an uber-smart London lawyer friend of mine usually swans down to remind me that there is a civilised world out there. She brings a waft of sophistication and opulence (and a huge bag of goodies from her local deli). She has regular appointments with her facialist, her waxer, her hair stylist – a whole army of professionals who conspire to keep her looking groomed. She goes to the gym, to ballet class and (damn her) she runs. Her body is a temple. Mine is the garden shed. She wears Prada, I wear Primark (well, not really, but I liked the alliteration).
I talked to her yesterday afternoon but the conversation was cut short as she had to go to be waxed.

‘Ho ho,’ I said, ‘Rather you than me with the Brazilian.’ Feeling smug that I’d remembered the correct term.
‘Oh God no,’ she replied. ‘I don’t have those anymore. It’s a Hollywood.’
‘A what?’
The description was pretty graphic and not for the faint-hearted but basically it entails a certain amount of lifting and stripping so there is no – repeat NO – hair left at all.
Frankly I find that a bit disturbing. Why would you want to resemble a pre-pubescent girl? Why would anyone else want you to?

I tend to visit the beauty salon (and how alien that phrase sounds) once a year – before going on holiday. I have a very conservative bikini wax (so I look presentable enough to wear a swimsuit in polite company), and have eyelashes and eyebrows dyed and eyebrows plucked. Sometimes I even throw caution to the wind and have my nails manicured. And, for about two days, I feel almost smart, nearly groomed. And I swear I’ll do it every month or so, but never do. Because the joy of living in the country is that really nobody particularly cares if you look like the back end of a bus (never really understood that analogy). I can rest assured that, however ghastly I look, there will be someone who looks as if they have been pulled through a hedge backwards (and round here, they probably have).

George the plumber came up today to fix the water down at the stables which had been leaking. He’s a cheery chap and was in particularly fine form today.
‘How are the dogs then, George?’ I asked (he breeds Hungarian Vizslas).
‘Fine. Oh and we’re pregnant.’ We? Taking it a bit too personally surely?
‘Oh great. When are the puppies due?’ Well, what else do you say?
‘No. Not one of the dogs. Barbara.’ His wife. Gosh. Suddenly I remembered our conversations of two years ago when he had confided (while unscrewing a U-bend) that his sperm swam the wrong way, or bent backwards or something (whatever – it was far too much information). And, in that split second before answering, wondered what they had done to fix the problem and – thank God – had a rare censorship moment and just replied….
‘That’s fabulous, fabulous news. Congratulations.’ And hurtled up the stairs before he could give me any explicit details on the conception.
Right. Onwards. Pic of me after being beautified (OK, only joking!)