Im going to make a confession. The very day after I came back from the mountains I went and got my eyebrows done. It's not as simple as just a bit of plucking. When at sea level I get them waxed, trimmed, plucked and then dyed. Women with actual qualifications in eyebrow maintenance take wax and then little eyebrow scissors to them and with the help of a handy eyebrow brush they trim them into a nice eyebrow shape. And when the lovely woman had finished I felt human again. In the mountains with no access to trained eyebrow specialists I had got desperate; but not desperate enough to try and trim them myself. I'm not that stupid.
Don't get me wrong. I am not the owner of crazy eyebrows that enter the room before I do but hair control is a very important issue to me, as I expect it is to most women.
This could possibly be because the image I have of myself should I let things go all natural is of a yeti with a Yorkshire accent. Now the sane part of me knows this isn't entirely true however I have been known to refer to myself as the hairiest woman in the world.
One would think that when I was packing for a six month trip I would have thought hard about my hair removal regime.
I did not.
I packed a razor, two spare razor heads and a pair of tweezers. This was all ok for a while. I happily shaved the places that needed shaving every other day, as is my usual regime and plucked everything else. I tried not to look at my eyebrows and I locked myself in the bathroom while I took the tweezers to my top lip. Now tweezing my top lip is potentially the worst pain I have ever gone through. In England I get it waxed. It takes seconds and then it's gone. Tweezing takes bloody ages!
Now come the middle of January I had a horrible thought. I was on my last razor head and it was almost time for another. What would I do? The chemist in town sold disposables but they looked like they would slice more leg than leg hair. The horrific Yorkshire yeti was dancing in the back of my mind and I wondered whether hair free but cut to bits legs were more appealing than hairy ones. Even though that thought entered my mind, I am slightly more reasonable than that and decided it email my mum instead. The email read 'dear mum, need to remove body hair, please send razor blades asap...and a copy of BBC history magazine. Thanks. Love you'. And while waiting the two weeks it took for parcels to arrive I carried on using the bluntest razor known to man.
One day the fashion designer said she just couldn't take it anymore, her moustache had got too bad, she needed cream to get rid of it. So we went to Sherpa and bought some own brand French hair removal cream. Leg hair removal cream, because that's a there was.
On arriving home she immediately applied it to her face.
'this isn't really meant for faces' I said
'I don't care' she replied.
I can't read much French but I could read enough to see that it was supposed to be applied for 6 minutes.
'I think it's time to take it off now' I said.
'I will just leave it a few minutes longer' she replied, quickly followed by 'err it's beginning to burn now, I think I will wash it off'.
She returned a few minutes later with a rather red top lip. 'At least the hair is gone' she said and then went to work.
Almost as soon as she had gone I used it myself. Though I took it off after exactly 6 minutes and they were a very tense 6 minutes.
And what was it all for really? We were in a ski resort. We never had our legs or arm pits on display. I was always wearing multiple layers that almost always included 120 denier tights. I could have provided a natural extra layer of warmth for myself to help me battle temperatures which reached minus 27 degrees.
And will I do that next season?
NO! I will just pack a huge amount of razor blades and hair removal cream.
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