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And Will wonders why I pay the girl at The Coochie Coo to do the waxing for me! The first thing you should know is that hair removal is not my friend.The particular talent of removing unwanted hair has eluded me. All methods have tricked me with their promises of easy, painless removal-the Epilady, the standard razor, the scissors, the Nair, the EpilStop,and now .... The Wax. My night began as any other normal weekday night .I came home from work, fixed dinner for my son and we played for awhile. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next couple hours: "maybe I should use that wax in my medicine cabinet". I set up my boy with a video and head to the site of my demise, um, I mean bathroom. It was one of those cold wax kits. No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the clear strips in your hand,peel them apart, press it on your leg (or wherever) and ignore the frantically rising crescendo of string instruments in the background. No muss, no fuss. How hard can this be? I mean, I'm not the girly-est of girls but I'm mechanically inclined so maybe I can figure out how this works. You'd think. So I pull one of the thin strips out. It's two strips facing each other,stuck together. I'm supposed to rub it in my hand to warm and soften the wax (I'm guessing). I go one better. I pull out the hair dryer and heat the SOB to ten thousand degrees. Cold wax, my ass. (Oh, how that phrase will come back to haunt me.) I lay the strip across my thigh. I hold the skin around it and pull. OK, so it wasn't the best feeling in the world,but it wasn't bad. I can do this! Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am Sheera, fighter of all wayward body hair and smooth skin extraordinaire! With my next wax strip, I move north. After checking on my son and verifying that he was, in fact, becoming one with Bear and learning all about smells, I sneak into the bathroom for The Ultimate Hair Fighting Championship. I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet. Using the same procedure, I then apply the wax strip across the right side on my bikini line, covering the right half of my vagina and stretching up into the inside of the right ass cheek. (Yeah, it was a long strip.) I inhale deeply. I brace myself. RRRIIIIPPP!!!! I'm blind! Blind from the pain! Vision returning. Oh crap. I've managed to pull off half an inch of the strip. Another deep breath. And RIIIP! Everything is swirly and tie-dyed? Do I hear crashing drums? OK, coming back to normal again. I want to see my trophy - my wax covered pelt that caused me so much agony. I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair. I hold the wax strip like an Olympic gold medallist. But why is there no hair on it? Why is the wax mostly gone? Where could the wax go, if not on the strip? Slowly, I eased my head down, my foot still perched on the toilet. I see hair - the hair that should be on the strip. I touch. I feel. I am touching wax. I look to the ceiling and silently shout "nooooooo!!" And realize I have just begun living my own personal version of The Tar Baby. I peel my fingers off the softest, most sensitive part of my body that is now covered in cold wax and matted hair, and make the next big mistake - up until this point, you'll remember, I've had my foot on the toilet. I know I need to move, to do something. So I put my foot down on the floor. And then I hear the slamming of the cell door. Vagina?Sealed shut. Ass? Sealed shut. A little voice in my head says "I hope you don't have to shit anytime soon. Your head just might pop off." I penguin walk around the bathroom trying desperately to figure out what I should do next. Hot water! Hot water melts wax! I'll run the hottest water I can stand and get in - the wax should melt and I can gently wipe it away, right? Wrong. I get in the tub - the water is slightly hotter than is used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment. And I sit. Now the only thing worse than having your goodies glued together is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of a tub. In scalding hot water. Which, by the way, does not melt the cold wax. So now I'm stuck to the tub. I call my friend, C, because she once dropped out of beauty school so surely she has some secret knowledge or trick to get wax off skin. It's never good to start a conversation with "So my ass and pussy are stuck to the tub. She doesn't have a trick. She does her best to suppress laughter. She wants to know exactly where the wax is on the ass "Are we talking cheek or hole, here?" she asks. She isn't even trying to hide the giggles now. I give her the run-down of the entire night. She tells me to call the number on the side of the box, but to have a good cover story for where the wax actually is. You know that if we were working the help line at XX Wax Co. and somebody called with their entire crack sealed shut we'd just put them on hold then record the conversation for everyone we know. You're going to end up on a radio show or the internet if you tell them the truth. While we go through various solutions, I resort to scraping the wax off with a razor. Boy, nothing feels better to the girly goodies than covering them in wax, sticking them to a tub in super hot water and THEN dry shaving the sticky wax off! In the middle of the conversation (which has inexplicably turned to other subjects!) I find the little, beautiful saving grace that is the lotion provided with wax to remove the excess. I rub some in and start screaming "It's working! It's working!" I get hearty congratulations from C and we hang up. I successfully remove all the wax and notice, to my dismay, that the hair is still there. So I shaved the damned stuff off. Hell, I was numb by that point anyway. And then I put the box of wax back in my medicine cabinet. Never know when a moustache might start to come in. Tonight, I attempt hair dying.








    "Et Tu, Las Vegas ?

    Las Vegas, my friend, my salvation
    Meadows where my jackpot leapt from your bosom
    then merged with my soul

    Where the grotto beyond the spot where the aircraft tires chirped
    became the touchstone for endless mending and
    flavored interludes with your emissary of sweetness

    Las Vegas, where my gaze locks when homeward looks
    frequent the distance between red canyons and
    the wonder clouds

    Where others visit to carry their comped intoxicants
    out to the streets lined with volcanic landscapes,
    bell towers and monoliths from destinations of
    another kind

    Faces of awe, of astonishment who are unable to imagine
    the comfort of a higher reward
    Measured not by buckets of quarters
    nor the splendor of decadent quarters, but the realm of
    another coin dropped into the basket in
    the sanctuary of the nefarious, who now bask
    in this new found glory - they who know that the journey
    is no longer a search mission, but, instead
    A celebration of nirvana

    Et tu, Las Vegas?, slayer of yesterday's miscues and
    missed beats
    Healer of my tattered sores from self immolation
    Et tu, my friend
    You are my home"

    WALK DON'T RIDE or see NOTES below

    Self-actualization...what a pretentious sounding word but what a mark to land on. I used the Rosario/ Randall McMurphy hybrid to describe a typical day under actualization. Maintaining the enterprise conjures staff work a la laundry, cooking and handyman duties, coupled with pondering a la post-lobotomy stares at sky, trees and the great outdoor. But what makes this actualization is the reality of living in love that strengthens everyday - the real deal...The first three attributes of the real deal is committed - as in won't ever fuck it up. The 2nd is monogamous meaning the historical battle of strange vs. fidelty never comes in to play - it's way past history. The 3rd is what can be focused on the most - devotion to romance and anything that brings her pleasure. The return is staggering, beyond what anyone is capable of describing. It's a part in a two character play, one that keeps adding twists in an environment of affection and laughter. The presence of pleasure is one part of the air we breathe - it never recedes. The balance is skewed way towards me, thanks to that actualization thing. Every day is another taste of the reward. When you feel like you've survived your long tour on the business battlefields, it is a never experienced conclusion, directing attention to staying in the moment and figuring out how to make it into perpetuity. That leads to getting broken parts into as good a condition as possible and knocking off the pretensions about seeking the excitement from the edges. So, no driving while impaired, no high risk adventures - you have the picture. Sounds like giving up, maybe? For me, it was completely unexpected. I never believed it was possible to love one person so fully that time together with her is unmistakably better than all the edge times and wish lists combined. And remakably, healthy living becomes not only attainable but without much hard work. The desire to be one-on-one with her as much as possible makes all stuff about house and household fun beyond imagination. It's not about relinquishing or avoiding, giving up stuff that used to be so primary but rather savoring the pleasure from so many pleasurable encounters. The conversations looking into her face and just reveling in all her different expressions while making all the sense imaginable about people we love and things that need full attention. All the aberrant behavior associated with adultery gets a zero acceptability looking backward. But in the moment, it's a price factor in getting actualized. Now, I can hear the rant about putting someone out of your life after being with you over half of your life as the aberrant action not the stuff that happened in that period and that's so true to the "you made a series of promises not kept" crowd. But it's the lying to cover up the sexcapades that has morphed into aberrant for me. If I had remained true, then "til death do us part" would have prevailed. But that's like changing a big (if:then) statement about your life and making the presumed outcome different. I am so positive that living with no lies is as refreshing as trampling the truth is enervating. You get clear and centered away from the edges. You get to make notes like this because it's a part of you that's the truth, not just what you're supposed to inflect. Rosario McMurphy with a grin and endorphins.

    The idea of watchful male predator on guard of his mate and offspring comes to mind allegorically to making all things safe for her as possible as prime priority. Selfishly, safety begets relaxation to flip up romance to the top and that's when the best feelings pervade. It's a variation from the not-tonite-headache banality as seen thru the reptilian challenged part of my mind. It's the actual zone, flock - one of the most required places to be that's been discovered. The more time spent in the zone, the finer the loin cut tastes. The evocative consequence of affection is always preferred, pausing only to look at her expressions and continuing with that look illuminating the cerebellum, feather touching thanks to the enhanced muscular coordination. It resonates like the strings beneath Heiftz' fingertips but producing much more ethereal expressions. It's God.

    some visionary

    ?2003, 2004, and 2005 All Rights Reserved

    Will Harper, AWOL minimalist

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