There are days when our being in France feels like one very extended vacation. Then there are other days that bring me back down to earth and remind me that we do, in fact, live here. And when you live somewhere, there are just things you have to do. Personal care things. Like haircuts. And waxing...lip, eyebrow, bikini. I mean, amirite, ladies, or amirite?
PSA: If there are any men reading this, I really, really, really suggest you just skip this post. Go back and re-read the Le Mans post.
I had put this off as long as I could. Our trip to Tampa to Greg and Kristie's wedding in May had allowed Brian to get another haircut and me to have my monthly waxing ritual with service providers who spoke English. For the next three and a half months, however, we are, to put it bluntly, rather screwed.
So today I set off, bravely, to the salon I had seen that accepted walk-ins. I should have known that this was going to be difficult when they asked my name, and I said, "Emily," and they struggled with that. The lady at the front desk finally wrote down "Amelie." Okay, cool, so I'm Amelie now. Great.
Then she tried to explain there would be a wait, only I did not understand what she needed me to do. Did I need to come back, say, at 3:00? Tomorrow? Friday? Eventually she said "quarante-cinq minutes," which means 45 minutes. I understood that. I'm getting really good at numbers. And I could wait 45 minutes. I was afraid if I walked out of there, I wouldn't come back.
So I waited. And a really cute bulldog came in with his owner, so that was a nice distraction. Finally, a girl called "Amelie?" That was my cue. She ushered me into a little room, but didn't tell me what to do (not that I would have understand her if she did). Then she left.
Ummm...okay. There's a table. I assume I need to...ahem...disrobe now? I mean, that's how my waxing salon does it in America. So I did. Only the table was facing toward the door. My apologies to the ladies getting manicures outside the door. I assume you weren't anticipating The Emily Show this morning when the esthetician walked back in. Nor was I anticipating giving it. Je suis desolee.
So then, I'm lying there all awkward and stuff, and she starts on my lip. Then my eyebrows. I'm like, really? Could we not get the other part over with, and then do the lip? That's EASY. But alas, we're in France. And they start with the face and work their way down, apparently. Noted.
I will spare you all the gory details, except to say that I'm still seeing about four spots from where I stared at the lights for 20 minutes. I can't decide if I should have had a drink before, or if I should go get one now.
Although I will say, this was far less painful than in the US. I don't know what kind of wax they're using, but they legit need to export that stuff. It was very gentle. And for lip, eyebrow, and bikini, it was only 32 euros. Bikini alone costs more than that in the US. So I suppose if I must go through this monthly embarrassment in which I flash random ladies and "quarante-cinq minutes" is the extent of my language comprehension, at least it's cheap? What can I say, I'm a glass half-full kind of girl.
So for those of you who think I'm living a fairy tale life, rest assured that reality comes crashing in every once in a while, k? B is due for a haircut soon, so I'm sure that will be another awkward cultural disaster. Stay tuned. And I sincerely hope your morning went more smoothly than mine.