Bikini waxing lyrical: a Too-Much-Information (TMI) story

“Let’s go some place quiet; I have a too-much-information story to tell you,” said  a girlfriend at work.

“It involves a bikini wax.”

If the promise of a TMI wasn’t a good enough reason to duck out across the road for a quick coffee, then the jumper that the girl opposite was wearing definitely was. It was mustard in colour, and, authentically, looked like it had been squirted on.

Another reason was that the agency is constantly hiring, and the open plan room is full of hopeful applicants arriving and departing with the regularity of someone on a high-fibre diet.

My friend led me across the road to a place where we all usually go for a beer on Friday nights. It’s a small bar, le Renouveau, which means, the Revival. It’s a fitting name, as most people who drink there seem like they are on life support.

It is run by some charming North Africans who know all our names, and don’t hesitate to insert them into every sentence, heightening our shame at having forgotten theirs.

With a coffee in hand, I asked my friend what the story was.

“Well, I don’t want to say it here at the bar, in front of all these men.”

She had a point – it was 3pm, and the local gamblers had descended on mass to watch the trots on tv.

Instead, we sat down outside and she launched into her story.

It had taken place at a bikini waxing parlour earlier in the week. She started to describe how the beauticians at the parlour have a new method of waxing their customers’ hard-to-reach places.

“They usually do it like this…” she said, gesturing putting her legs over her head.

At this point I saw in the corner of my eye two French colleagues and a job applicant heading towards the cafe. Sometimes when it’s too noisy at the office – often – they do job interviews at this very same cafe.

Undeterred or unaware, my friend continued: “But this time they asked me to lie on my stomach and spread my cheeks right open!”

To emphasise the humiliation she had felt, she stood up and gestured the spreading of butt cheeks, towards the inside of the bar.

The drunkards were too busy watching the horse race to notice. Not so the approaching French colleagues though… I turned around just in time to see them doing a double take, then usher the hopeful candidate quicklu on to a more convivial destination.


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