hot body wax

this is the quintessential girly dilemma...you have the best waxer in the city minding your collar and cuffs, grooming and maintaining your bikini line like a gardener at Versailles when whamo! the whole operation closes down and the lady with the wax is without a home.

then, we're forced to go and get waxed, merely waxed, not the artistry of the above-mentioned goddess who, one could compare her deft hand to a kitten licking on a stamp (can i get a hallelujah) - oh no my friends we are thrown into the power of a motley crew who would sooner (and quicker) leave you naked as a j-bird, bare as a coffee bean, with no more than a 'by your leave' than actually maintain the frikkin' air strip styles you have been sporting for ages.

then the goddess returns. a hopeful phone call with a salon name and phone number. you call it hoping to book soon. your air strip is all but a runway in some columbian field for druglords. alas, in a blurry underwater voice you hear "this is Franco, i'm not in right now..."

what kind of topsy turvy world are we living in, i ask you.