It’s always good when you meet a person that is the ‘real deal’ – the type of person who’ll tell it to you straight. Except that is, when you’re naked from your navel down.Last night I met with my new waxing lady. Those of you who remember my glowing review Waxing Lyrical about the friendly staff at Gina Conway might wonder why on earth I changed locales. Simple really, lack of funds.
At The Beauty Spot in Clapham Junction (just up the stairs and round the corner from sweaty men pumping iron at Fitness First) I can get a full-leg and brazilian for £45, that’s more than 10-quid cheaper than the lovely ladies in Fulham. So the move was necessary, and up until now, quite pleasant. Good service, quick service and friendly service. Then I met Madame Italiano.
She’s boisterous and lively and jolly and lovely. Asking me questions, seemingly interested, encouraging me that the hard work I’m putting into the mag world now – that be my internship – will pay off sooner than I think. And that I too will be buying Fendi and Prada like the ladies I now babysit for. I joked with her that I might pop-in, in between waxes, for pep-talks when I’m feeling low…
Waxing over, I hopped off the bed and went to put on my skinny jeans. A production at the best of times and always with a few hops and yanks and tummy tucks. But this time my legs were still glazed in wax and calming creams so the process was a little tighter. I laughed that my legs were still sticky. She shook her head and said, “No darling, that’s fat.”
Scusi? Could she be serious? I managed a smile between flushed cheeks. You see my friends always assure me that I’m nowhere near fat. They roll their eyes when I comment on calories or my need to exercise. But what do my friends really know? This lady had just spent half-an-hour focussing on my inner-thighs, wasn’t she a better judge?
I like to think that somethings are lost in translation, but Madame Italiano has been living in London for more than 14 years. And even though I should be horrified, even though I have every right to never wax with her again… I think I like her. There's nothing like a bit of tough love in a big city.
At The Beauty Spot in Clapham Junction (just up the stairs and round the corner from sweaty men pumping iron at Fitness First) I can get a full-leg and brazilian for £45, that’s more than 10-quid cheaper than the lovely ladies in Fulham. So the move was necessary, and up until now, quite pleasant. Good service, quick service and friendly service. Then I met Madame Italiano.
She’s boisterous and lively and jolly and lovely. Asking me questions, seemingly interested, encouraging me that the hard work I’m putting into the mag world now – that be my internship – will pay off sooner than I think. And that I too will be buying Fendi and Prada like the ladies I now babysit for. I joked with her that I might pop-in, in between waxes, for pep-talks when I’m feeling low…
Waxing over, I hopped off the bed and went to put on my skinny jeans. A production at the best of times and always with a few hops and yanks and tummy tucks. But this time my legs were still glazed in wax and calming creams so the process was a little tighter. I laughed that my legs were still sticky. She shook her head and said, “No darling, that’s fat.”
Scusi? Could she be serious? I managed a smile between flushed cheeks. You see my friends always assure me that I’m nowhere near fat. They roll their eyes when I comment on calories or my need to exercise. But what do my friends really know? This lady had just spent half-an-hour focussing on my inner-thighs, wasn’t she a better judge?
I like to think that somethings are lost in translation, but Madame Italiano has been living in London for more than 14 years. And even though I should be horrified, even though I have every right to never wax with her again… I think I like her. There's nothing like a bit of tough love in a big city.
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