WAXING IS LOWKEY A WAR CRIME AND WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT 😳🔥

WAXING IS LOWKEY A WAR CRIME AND WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT 😳🔥

Okay besties, grab your ice packs and your emotional support squishmallows because we need to have a very real, very raw, very *traumatizing* conversation. You know that thing we do every month? The appointment we make with a literal stranger who asks us to spread eagle while they pour hot lava on our most sacred area? Yeah. WAXING. I’m convinced it’s not beauty. It’s not self-care. It’s a hazing ritual passed down from ancient times that we’ve all just collectively gaslit ourselves into accepting as “normal.” Like, hello? We are paying people to inflict pain that would make a WWE wrestler cry. And we tip them for it. That’s the wildest part. We hand them a 20% gratuity on top of the emotional damage. We are sick in the head. 🤡

Let’s break down the timeline of a waxing appointment because it’s actually a psychological thriller. Act One: The calm before the storm. You walk in. The esthetician is super nice. There’s soft music playing. Maybe some cucumber water. You think, “This time will be different. I’ve meditated. I’ve hydrated. I am a zen queen.” You lie down on the table and the *betrayal* hasn’t even started yet. 💅

Act Two: The first strip. This is the jump scare. You don’t see it coming. She applies the wax. It’s warm. Comfortable, even. You relax for exactly 0.5 seconds. Then she presses the cloth down. And you know what’s coming. You clench every muscle in your body. Your jaw locks. Your toes curl. You grab the sides of the table like you’re about to be launched into space. And then—RIIIIIIIIP. The sound alone is enough to send you into fight or flight. It’s not a clean rip. It’s a *fast rip*. Like she’s trying to outrun your pain receptors. But your brain is faster. You feel everything. The follicle saying goodbye. The tiny scream of your skin. And then she immediately presses her hand down on the area to “soothe” it. But it doesn’t soothe. It’s just pressure on top of the burning crater that used to be your hair. And you’re bleeding. Just a little. But you see it. You feel it. And you still have 45 minutes left. 🚩

Act Three: The conversation. Oh, the conversation. You’re literally in the most vulnerable position of your life. Your legs are in the air. You’re naked from the waist down. And she’s asking, “So, any fun plans this weekend?” And you have to respond like a normal human while actively trying not to cry. “Oh, you know, just hanging out with friends. Maybe brunch. How about you?” Meanwhile, she’s ripping hair out of your inner thigh. The duality of womanhood is insane. We are professional maskers. We smile through the pain. We laugh. We make small talk about the weather while our souls leave our bodies. That’s not a spa visit. That’s a hostage negotiation. 😭

And can we talk about the *positions*? I’m not a gymnast. I’m not a contortionist. But somehow, I’m expected to hold my leg at a 90-degree angle, bend my knee, and also keep my foot steady while she reaches for that one stubborn hair near the back. I’m shaking. My leg is cramping. She tells me to “relax.” RELAX?? Bestie, I am holding a pose that would make a Cirque du Soleil performer tap out. I’m not relaxing. I’m surviving. And then she says, “Just one more strip.” But it’s never one more. It’s always six more. She’s a liar. A beautiful, skilled liar. But a liar nonetheless. 💀

Let’s also address the elephant in the room: the brazilian. The full. The everything. The one where they ask you to lift your legs and hold them by your ears. The one where you feel like you’re giving birth to a soccer ball. The one where you see your own mortality flash before your eyes. That one. The pain is so specific. It’s not a normal pain. It’s a *cosmic* pain. It’s a pain that connects you to every woman who has ever lived. We are all sisters in the struggle. We all know the feeling of the esthetician saying, “Take a deep breath in,” and then ripping on the exhale. But the inhale is already scary. You breathe in and you’re just waiting. The air is tense. The room is silent. And then BAM. You’re initiated. Welcome to the club. Here’s your free ingrown hair serum. 🙃

And the aftermath? Don’t even get me started. You walk out of there feeling like a newborn baby. Smooth. Silky. Glowing. But then you get home and you look in the mirror and you see the red bumps. The irritation. The little dots of blood. And you think, “Was it worth it?” And then you go about your day because society has convinced you that hair is unhygienic or unattractive or something. But let’s be real. Hair is natural. Hair is normal. Hair is literally a sign of being a mammal. But we’re out here paying $70+ to have it ripped out of our bodies in the name of “feeling clean.” It’s not clean. It’s war. And we are the casualties. 🪖

But here’s the thing. We keep going back. Why? Because the results are undeniable. That first shower after a wax? Chef’s kiss. The way your sheets feel against your legs? Immaculate. The confidence boost? Real.

Final Thoughts

After spending years covering the beauty industry’s ever-shifting standards, I’ve come to see waxing as the most honest form of grooming: it demands a painful trade-off for a clean slate, and there’s a certain journalistic respect for that kind of transactional clarity. The ritual, from the rip of the strip to the inevitable redness, strips away not just hair but the illusion that beauty is effortless—a reality most glossies conveniently skip. Ultimately, whether you see it as a liberating reset or a weekly act of self-inflicted tyranny, waxing forces a confrontation with the price of control, and that, more than the smooth skin, is the real story.