Training is done, lady bits a a thing of the past, I am now a professional waxer of balls.

There are lots of pros to being a Beauty Therapist; which I am now gonna refer to as a BT! If you don’t mind the abbreviation, it’s quicker, beauty therapist is a mouthful,and sometimes, I find the word disconcerting as a former colleague once pointed out, it also spells the rapist. Which with some very prudish, and extremely shy older women, as they climb on the couch with their trousers on for a bikini line wax. I have to state the obvious. “It’s quite hard to do a bikini line wax through your trousers madam.” To which they awkwardly lower their trousers half way down their thighs. Mm still pretty tricky I think to myself, and smile. At this point I can feel like the rapist, trying to go somewhere you ought not to. But generally we are quite far removed from being the rapist. Never the less, BT it is.

The pros to being a BT, are no work to take home, meet loads of different peops, find out the gory goss, & best of all, once in your treatment room, you’re the boss, controlling the airtime. Which I take full advantage of, if I’m honest, and it becomes an audience with Tamar. The poor unsuspecting clients have to listen to me ramblings. I really make the most of my captive audience, to practice my comedic abilities, discuss theories and mostly nose into strangers private life’s. To me, this is most fascinating. I never tire of finding out about people and how they’re life is rolling out.

There are also cons. If there are no clients, there is no work. This part is excruciating. There are few agonies close to being at work, but having no work to do.

I have an empty column today. No customers yet. The waiting, what to do when waiting? To fill this time I clean the tiny room within an inch of it’s life. I faff as no one else can faff. I am pretty good at killing time, but even I, 3 hours in, am completely done. Lunch time, ah lunch time, food, breaks so many moments of monotony. Time to take a stroll.

I pass the barbers, and glance in. Give Dan, the head barber a nod of hello. He acknowledges me with raised eyebrows, and goes back to being mesmerised by his phone, hunched over, engrossed by temple run, candy crush, utube, whatever…. oh facebook everyones on facebook. On my train journey to work I often have a cheeky look over a guy on the train’s shoulder, yep facebook! Crazy. Lots of people moan about Facebook, but it’s astounding how often I nose at what the person traveling next to me is looking at on their phone, the amount people scrolling through their news feed is astounding, well I find it astounding, others may find me, just plain nosey. I am always the annoying passenger leaning to read me neighbours paper. It is a social no ,no, but my ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, coupled with a curiosity that killed the cat, I commit social faux pars continually.

Luke, the young 17/18 year old barber just outta college, is lounging in the barber’s chair, face in hands, staring into the mirror, deeply & intently looking. A few sweeps of the hair to perfect his quiff, cute. The young make boredom look cool, bearable, desirable, wearable. Bitter & twisted old fools, like myself look exhausted, angry, bitter, drained, beaten. Not good. I grab a macdonlds in the hoping of getting Mayfair and park lane. A cool £50000 would be sweet right now, I could pay of me credit cards an get out of here for a month or so. Ah so that killed an hour.

I want to hide away when there’s nothing to do. I fear people seeing me in this defeated state. Bent over, lacking in purpose. Having nothing to do is not becoming at all. Please someone save me from this dole drum. Give me sumink to do. For now, I will lie and daydream, where the work should be, on the waxing couch.



First confession, when I say every Monday morning, I mean probably that day, maybe that week, but really it could just be someday, one day soon. I do say “Morning!” at all crazy times of day. And sometimes Monday morning will be Wednesday….evening.

I’ve been waxing lady bits for nigh on 15 years. I have now progressed to men’s nether regions. Woah what a career move. Let me try in some way to explain why when asked to work at a men only salon it was no biggie. In other words, to be waxing ball bags, willies, and bum holes. The infamous back, sack and crack. I was not shocked, and in fact up for the challenge. Really no biggie. 

To some waxing is a big no no, be it man or woman. Quite, it hurts too much. For some removing hair from genitalia is just darn wierd. But hey, I’m a modern woman growing up with Carrie from Sex and the City. So I have to say removing hair from the genitalia for me is not weird at all. I’ve been removing the hair from my moo since the late ninties! Though be it with a razor, and suffering immense regrowth itchiness agony. Also, having mainly open experimental sexual relationships, hair removal can be part of one’s sex life. It ‘s actually quite sexy to remove hair prior to getting jiggy with it, as well as being hygienic & smooth. And let’s face it who enjoys getting pubes in one’s teeth? No me, no me. 

It amazes me that a man removing unwanted hair, even in 2014, is still not seen as the norm. So it is walking into slightly unknown territory. Still for most part it is seen as pervy, a tabboo, gross, wierd, gay etc

Really? Taboo? Wierd? Gay? Pervy? Gross?

When telling my collegues and boss I was leaving this bollocks to go wax bollocks. They clearly thought what the hell are you letting yourself in for. “Yuck, oh gross men’s bits, it’s gonna be loads of weirdo’s.” Exclaimed my old boss. Now, having worked in various salons over the years there are plently of gross women, plenty of wierd women, dirty, smelly, miserable women. I am assuming it can’t be much worst than anything I’ve seen or smelt so far.

The reality is far different from the sordid mind of my previous boss who I may add has drawn pictures of pith that she saw during a Hollywood wax. Yes pith, yes drawings, yes stuck in someone’s pubic hair. Lovely!

As I was about to find out for myself, if men are gonna wax their nether regions they’re clean. Alot of women are not. Men are often quite shy in a salon environment, even getting a back wax. They can be body conscious, so they make an extra effort not to offend their therapist with body odour. If not they are super vain, and look after themselves really well, better than most women. Again making an extra effort to be clean.

Men are also the best customers generally, polite, grateful, good tippers, they buy what you tell them to, mostly good conversationalists, and they like a laugh. They are a Beauty Therapist’s dream. A pleasure to do busines with. A walk in the park after dealing with plenty of menopausal women. A walk in the park……

Monday, Monday….

imageGetting up close and personal. 1st blog entry, there’ll be a post every Monday morning!

‘Monday Monday, so good to me.’ Nice song, mama’s & papa’s, wrong sentiment. I find it hard to believe that a Monday has been good to anyone. Prior to this particular Monday, I found myself agreeing to take on a job as an all male waxing therapist. This Monday morning has found me training for such a job. Say what? Monday morning, hairy man balls….this is not so good for me.

The male model, middle age, a naturist, and well, lets say at the very least, comfortable in his own skin. There is nothing attractive about this man, so it isn’t awkward, not in a jump him kind of way. If brad pit or becks walked in, these would be any ladies first choice to get up close and personal to, I think. I don’t know what I would do, blush, smile, try to 69 ’em on the couch? Back to reality. Today’s specimen is an overweight, charmlessly charming, suburban male. The thought of looking at these overweight nether regions, til lunch time, is not filling me with joy.

This is the beginning of the journey of spending a significant amount of my time pulling willies about and staring up arse holes. As close to an arse hole, as anyone is ever gonna get, some doctors and nurses, don’t even get so close to make sure every last stray hair is gone.

Dave waddles around comfortably in his birthday suit, caressing his own rotund belly, exclaiming his clichés loudly and proudly. Which does makes me feel awkward. Oh god, now I’ve got to pretend I am interested in what he is saying, and feign pleasantness. When inside I am thinking, shut the fuck up. I am here to earn a living, not to listen to your pragmatic bullshit. And so Dave continues with his not so wise words of wisdom. ‘At the end of day we’re all the same…. ‘at the end of the day, can’t come quick enough for me. I am looking forward to a moment in time where I don’t have to listen to a middle aged mans bag of shite. I would rather have his poohole in my face than listen to his drivel. I want to get a sign on my forhead STOP TALKING TO ME YOU BORING ARSEHOLE. But being english, I smile sweetly squeeze out a fake laugh, yeah yeah, I know what you mean, yep it’s true(hating myself with my sycophantic lies).

ha bloody ha…. SHHHUUUT UUPPPP!

Only way to get though this is to pretend he doesn’t exist, and do not make eye contact.

What have I let myself in for? What we go through just to earn a living, so we can infrequently treat ourselves to something nice, only to lament our stupidity until the next pay day. That’s what I do anyhoo’s.