Hong Kong: Chinese or Indian Waxing?

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Four years ago, I did waxing for the last time. I switched to the razor in a blink. And you know? I like it. Is a bit like gardening, from time to time you see the fruit of your work grow lush become increasingly thicker and stronger, see the hair challenge the force of gravity and pierce even the most thickest of stockings, see them twist and grow in two from the same bulb. I’m satisfied. But I have not always been this way. I decided to switch to shaving fast and easy after undergoing waxing in Shanghai four years ago.

I went to one of those “centers for expats” where they used imported products because Chinese ones scratched your skin, make the hives come, or if you are really unlucky you got hepatitis B.

Now I may digress and speak directly to all male readers:

My friend following the blog, I’m about to talk about very feminine and very personal topics which are definitely not interesting from your point of view. Trust me, it’s not just for me, but also for your friend/girlfriend/wife, so if you want to keep on having a decent sex life without thinking about waxing every time you take off her panties, then stop reading, I promise that next post will be unisex.

Where did we leave off? Yes, the Chinese beautician that in Shanghai is not called a beautician but “wax expert”. And you do trust a wax expert, don’t you?

Yes you do. I did trust her.

I told her to wipe my legs and bikini area.

“What shape?”

Oh my God, shapes? Seriously?  I’m not prepared.

“What shapes do you have?” (I hope there is Batman, if there is Batman I do it, I want Batman, tell me Batman …)

“Usually girl like you chose the Brazilian.”

“Like me? How do I look like?”

Nervous laughter… “All you Americans, girls who speak English.” Sure.

“Go for the Brazilian, if US, the Americans, like it…”

 The “expert” hands me a silk bathrobe, better than giant paper panties that swell from all sides making you looks like an inflatable boat. I lie down on the massage table surrounded by flowers and incense and I relax … I never relaxed during the waxing. Maybe the Chinese silk has the same effect as the ibuprofen and I will not feel pain.

The expert comes with wet towels, soothing creams, and a hot little oven where yellow sticky wax blanks. She carefully opens the bathrobe and barring her eyes:


“Ooooohhh what? What did you just see? I am pretty sure that American pussies are just like mine.”

First sighs, then carefully watches my hairs, combs them, checks in which direction they grow, evaluates the wind, calculates the degrees, measures on the paper with the goniometer how much she has to rotate the Brazilian base, then pours two drops of wax here and there. So it continues, two drops in two drops. After the first half hour we are still on the fucking right side of the Brazilian base.

“Sorry, can we do it fast? I should also shave my legs, just make a crawl together and go for it.”

She gives a squeaky sound halfway between an embarrassed laugh of a sixteen-year-old and nails crisscrossed on the blackboard, rubbing her eyes and shaking her head resentful.

“The hair must be ripped in the direction they grow.”

“Weeelllll yes, but you don’t really have to calculate the direction as if you are designing a starship for the NASA, they more or less grown in that direction, do you see?” I show her the direction with my pointer finger.

“Make a nice strip in this direction,” I show her with my pointer finger.

 “And you’ll see that they’re all gone,” I smile to her.

The expert is angry now. It continues silently to remove groups of hairs four at a time. I say no more, she has in the hand a spatula full of hot wax and does not seem sympathetic to this American girl with hair that grows everywhere.

Two hours later I get out of the center with my beautiful Brazilian (Batman was better) legs shaved. A waxing cost me like twelve foot massages and I decided instead to do more foot massages and buy a razor.

Four long years passed and this beautiful American girl moved with her beautiful razor and her lush Brazilian to Hong Kong.

 After a couple of weeks here I immediately realize that something does not go, I shave in the shower every morning and in the evening I’m already like sandpaper. The hot and humid weather accelerates exponentially the growth of the hair. The hair bulbs sprout at a rate that even the fertilized grass does not hold. My skin reddens and I am tempted to abandon the razor and leave me to the natural (natural things go so fashionable, go green, go vegan, go hair). Then my new friend Patrizia enlightens me:

“I usually go to an Indian beauty salon, they have black and big hairs like US and they know what to do,” she tells me.

First of all I think: “US who? The Americans?” No stupid me, US like Western women with hair that grow thick and in different directions.

Second thought: “What am I doing now? I really like my beautiful and lush garden!”

At the end I book an appointment to Freeda, Indian beauty salon, a name a guarantee. Freeda Kahlo I am yours.

I immediately notice the difference between the magnificent Chinese center and Freeda. No incense and flowers, no silk bathrobes or menus to choose the shapes.

Freeda gives me a disposable skirt, quicker and convenient than paper panties. From a lie down position I look like I am in the operating room.


She comes back, raises the paper and says:


“Emh, yes.”

“How long did you use it?”

“One year?”

“Do not lie to me please”

“Four years perhaps?”

“Good. I have to use waxing with blue pearls from Mars, because these hairs are too thick for a normal waxing.”

 Do we do a Brazilian?” I ask, to ease the tension.

“Nope. I remove everything.”

She grips the latex gloves, like a surgeon. The problem is that she takes away everything for real. Thick hair I did not know I had in places I did not know you could put wax on it. But she puts wax on it.

Forty minutes later and at a fair price, I have my smooth skin again.

I also leave the print of my sweaty body on the massage table, the blue pearls from Mars which were  not soaked in the ibuprofen and the strong roots of my plants.

Too bad, it was a nice garden.

blue pearls from Mars

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