The Jagwa Experience

Waxing? Oh I dabble. By that I mean I have summoned the courage from some dark space deep within me to walk through the doors of Jagwa, spread my legs and endure the pain about once a year for three years. Jagwa is my salon of choice – purely because it is £6 cheaper than the tranquil and glamorous service at Uniquely You and that’s a lot of money to a student. £6 makes the difference in terms of not having to skip lunch for three days to save money for Friday’s nightclub entry fee.

I will always remember the first Jagwa experience I ever had. Tracey, the Madame of the parlour, led me down into her dungeon and, noticing I was a little shy to get undressed, practically slurred in her brummy accent: “I’ve seen more vaginas than you’ve had hot dinners love.” I went from shy to terrified in one breath. The worst aspect of the dungeon is that every wall is painted blood red, so that when you’re on your back, trying to distract yourself from the agony of the wax, all you can see is the red ceiling closing in on you and gory thoughts begin to trickle through your mind. I must encourage ol’ Trace to redecorate.

My most recent Jagwa experience was quite the experience. As one of Tracey’s girls led me down the stairs, her Terrier – the latest addition to the Jagwa crew – followed us down. Naturally I thought this must be breaking some kind of hygiene regulation so I said to the girl “Is he allowed downstairs with us?” To which she replied “Yeah come on Kingsley there’s a good boy”. Kingsley?! And it gets worse.  After undressing in preparation for the dreaded procedure, I notice that one of my shoes is missing. Kingsley. So after completing the humiliating task of undressing in front of Kate – Tracey’s girl – which makes me feel about 7 years old, I then had to do a semi-naked chase after the amazingly agile Kingsley around the room and then a tug of war. Kingsley is strong for his size. I finally get my mangled shoe, panting and red-cheeked and Kate grins at me: “Oh yeah, you’ve got to put your stuff on a high surface out of his reach.” Cheers for the heads up, Kate. She then proceeds to speak to Kingsley in a baby voice and tickle him while he licks her face. Is this real life?

A lot of people I know feel uncomfortable with forced small-talk at the hairdressers; the waxing salon is not exactly the ideal social setting, either. Me and Kate exchange very few words during the excruciating 20 minutes we spend together in the cell. She initiated conversation once, Kate’s a mumbler so I replied with “Pardon?” only to discover that she was actually addressing Kingsley, not me.  What happened next was emotionally scarring to say the least, “If you could just stretch out your stomach for us there love…” Excuse me?! I had never been asked to do this before and I eventually came to the awful realisation that Kate needed me to make my skin taught (skin that would have been extremely taught if I hadn’t contracted a food baby following from an intense relationship with Dominos during my first year of university.)

“There!” Yes, I exhaled, it’s finally over. I look down, thinking I really should have invested in a Hollywood, all a Brazilian gets you is an unfinished wax and £5 richer.  I scurry out of Jagwa, don’t look back and catch the  bus home feeling relieved that I didn’t cycle – as mum had suggested after her comment referring to my bloated face – I’ll feel fortunate if I can ever walk properly again let alone mount a bike.