Removal: An Electrolysis Story

It’s official. I am a monster.

Not just on the inside as some of you might think after my narcissistic comments or hot-headed outbursts, but also on the outside. Now you might be asking yourself why someone with such good genes and so much symmetry in her facial features would be making this kind of statement (told you, a true narcissist – or just very truthful? – ok, sorry you’re right, we’ll leave it at narcissist). The reason is body hair. We know that we all have it but it seems so tragic when it appears in the ‘’wrong’’ parts of the body (please refer to definition of the perfect woman).

I had been priming and prodding these unsightly beings for a while before I decided to take action. That action was a Google search for the closest electrolysis salon with reasonable pricing and calling to make an appointment. I felt quite accomplished as I crossed that off my "to do" list, not realizing that I actually had to go through with the treatment.

For anyone thinking that electrolysis is some kind of 60s electric shock therapy (as I first did when I heard the term as an adolescent) sorry to disappoint. I didn’t go in for a mental treatment to redefine my standards of beauty and accept myself ‘’as is’’, like defective merchandise. Instead, I went to a beauty salon to kill those suckers that had been blowing in the wind, making surprise appearances in bright indoor lighting and letting their hair down (pun intended) in the sunlight.

The electrolysis technician was very friendly and made me feel at ease. It is very strange to have to expose yourself to a stranger. At this point only my mother and husband (very limited details – i.e. Honey, I have an appointment) knew about my rendezvous. My mother knew which body parts I wanted to have zapped because 1) she is a doctor and 2) she is my mother and knows everything about me. She has always downplayed my body hair issue by saying that I focus too much on details that no one else notices. Mind you, my father had very bad eyesight and I suspect that this is how she got away with her own body hair not being noticed. Although my husband doesn’t have 20/20 vision, he is quite an eagle-eye when it comes to unimportant miniscule details and I don’t have the luxury of falling back on his imperfect vision.

I lied down on the table and the technician pulled out the huge magnifying glass, surrounded by blinding lights, and start examining my face. I am glad that I was not on the other end of that magnifying glass; spared to know only the details I had seen in a standard bathroom mirror. I thought about all those times I had gone to the dentist and what he must have been thinking when he also used a similar magnifying glass while examining my teeth; he got more than he bargained for.

As the technician zapped the hairs, I felt jolts of pain each time but had to remain still and calm on the table. I suddenly regretted making the appointment and wondered if I could get up and leave in the middle of the treatment but decided against it. Not because I had toughened up but because I thought it would be too awkward to try to leave mid-zap. I felt shy about being vulnerable and physically exposed so I tried to imagine myself as a confident topless female beach-goer in St Tropez, nonchalant about her nudity and body. Instead, I felt like I had an opted for an unglamorous experimental medical procedure. As these thoughts ran through my head, so did the time. After 15 minutes my treatment was over and I was free to go home. I looked in the mirror – I was red, enflamed, puffy and most importantly, hairless. I paid and thanked the technician and then made another appointment for the coming week.

No pain, no gain – right?