Secondhand Sunday

Sundays are my Secondhand day. I'm basically too lazy to think of anything new to say so I re-post a "vintage" entry.

If you aren't in the mood for repeats, please feel free to change the channel.


"YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT?"

Original Post Date, June 11, 2009

I was watching this educational video posted by JB over at It's Gonna Take More Than a Hamburger to Make Me Happy, and it got me thinking about a personal grooming experience from my past.

The year was 1988, the summer I turned 22. Of course, at the forefront of my mind was how I looked (kind of like it is now) and I always tried to find the latest, greatest beauty products. We women of Armenian descent are hairy. We pluck and bleach and shave and then shave again at the end of the day. And we don't have baby fine, blonde hair. We have coarse, dark hair.



The hottest thing on the market that year was a hand held hair removal device called an Epilady. It consisted of intertwined coils that rotated at a high speed and RIPPED your hair out by the root.

It has to go down in marketing history as one of the cleverest campaigns out there. How else could you convince grown women to shell out over $75 for a weapon that would leave you wincing in pain but "hair free for days!" $75 for that luxury? I'll give ya a hundred! Finally, something to ease my hair removal woes.

I didn't mind shaving my legs or even my underarms but my biggest pet peeve was my bikini line. I never seemed to be able to get a nice, smooth shave and I didn't like waxing, either. Epilady to the rescue!

I remember hurrying home to try out my new deluxe, gold model Epilady. You had to be sure your skin was dry and that you pulled it taut as you glided it over the area you were concentrating on.




"Wow," I thought to myself, "this isn't as painful as I thought it would be."

I ran my fingers over the section I had completed and I was really impressed with the results. And then it happened.

Now, keep in mind, the year was 1988. Women were just starting to trim down there as bikinis got smaller. I can still remember getting ready to go out on a Friday night when my friend Debbie implored her cousin, Carla, who was changing her clothes to "trim that, for God's sake." It was the 80's. We didn't look like prepubescent teens. We looked more like what this guy is wearing on his head.



So there I was, buzzing along, pulling hair out by the roots, getting a smooth bikini line. I listened to the hum of my Epilady.

HUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

HUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

HUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

HUUU

You got it. Those rotating coils grabbed a hold of my errant Armenian bush and held on for dear life.

What the hell was I going to do? I tried sending my dog for help but Lassie he wasn't. He did come back with a squeaky toy that proved helpful as something to bite down on to ease the pain and muffle my screams.

I managed to make my way into another room, my Epilady dangling precariously between my legs. I found some sewing shears in the kitchen drawer and carefully snip snipped to release myself from its grip. I think I spent the rest of the night with a bag of frozen peas in my lap.

Thank God it's not the 80's anymore.