Friday, July 2, 2010

Waxing Lyrical

When my favourite waxer to the stars, Rosa the Russian Beautician, descended upon the rugged Pilbara terrains this week, I was dribbling with excitement. I have not seen Rosa and her lycra leopardy body since 2000, when her voice echoed through the Melbourne's Botanicals Gardens at my wedding. Indeed, the wedding was cut short (according to Rosa's way) as her vocal chords were so powerful they blasted a hole in this green grassy patch, enough to turn it into an open cut mine.  

Sticky hairs are Rosa's business. She's done the Donald Trump (who tried to comb it over in the downstairs!), Susan Boyle with her virgin thickets and the Princess Mary...but we better not go there. Old growth forest is a matter of fearful trepidation when you are honouring your bikini!

So, a dedication to my favourite beautician to the stars and her creator, Marney McQueen. Here is another type of waxing. A type we might all be forced to use were it not for the plucking and preening skills of such a goddess of the privates.

Lick, Spit and Dribble

Mr Bradley Brady, he was
not a happy chappy with his
ears upon the ladies, right
behind him rather chatty, at the
rural royal show and its great
whiff of cows and poo and all those
rides and floss, you know, yes all those
showy things you do.

But now he was not blushing he was
simply mortified, something had
all the blood now rushing to his
most deflated pride, for as they
sat these women two doing as
ladies quite enjoy, that gossip
thing, yes, as you do, oh how their
words they stung our boy…

‘He’s really rather hairy,’ as they
whispered ‘hind his back, under the
sun, that spotlight glaring, Bradley
too stunned to attack.
‘Indeed, how does she cope with Bradley’s
fur and fuzz and fluff? It makes him
look a real dope, I bet she’s
really had enough.’

‘Mmm…’ they mused, then silence as they
wandered off together and he
didn’t threaten violence
but he really wondered whether they were
right with all his hair and he should
sort his body out, I mean, this
body, to be fair was taut and
ripped with sexy clout.

Shave it? Pluck it? Rip it out? He
wasn’t quite sure how and as he
pondered this out walking came the
sign - a mooing cow - with a
bit of spit and dribble and a
lick right up his back, he thought,
‘That’s it!’ no time to quibble, ‘I must
go on the attack.’

No one fancies back hair and the
ladies had now said it so with
inspiration out there was not
time now to regret it.
And no man likes his pride to be
remarked upon in public
so with purpose in his stride our Bradley
thought…hairless republic!

With no idea of how to do it
Bradley wandered round until he
came upon a stall, ‘I knew it -
remedy now found!’
He bought up every item from the
stall and raced right home so he might
soon remove the blight, but would it
stick or burn or foam?

Oh well, Bradley thought as he did
melt the items then all boil and
bubble, rather hot until the
mixture looked quite zen.
Silky smooth and bub-bl-ing, a
spatula he found, the appli-
cation might be trou-b-ling but
Brad, he stood his ground.

‘Twas only minutes later when the
scream ripped through the air with Bradley
running, scorched potato, burning
back from here to there.
And in that very moment came his
wife through their front door holding a
coffee and a magazine
‘What is it?!!!’ she implored.

Bradley’s brain did grapple, sobbing,
screaming, ‘Ohhh! The pain!’ Dripping
blood red toffee apple,
‘down his back and bum in vain.
Anne, his dearest wife was off the
Richter scale with terror and just
screamed, ‘What is this strife!’ as if to
quick negate his error.

After, in the bedroom, as Brad
lay upon his tummy bandaged
here until forever, started
then to think it funny…as his
wife took him to hospital
with plastered toffee burning and he
told her of his back hair plight which
got his guts all churning.

‘That was me,’ she’d told him as he
blushed, a sorry twit, ‘…with my
girlfriend and my magazine
discussing Bradley Pitt and that
beard of his, absurd… but not
quite as much as you. Oh my
darling, p’raps you’ve learned that toffee
burns and sticks like glue.

Our Bradley full recovered and his
wife loved him the more and with his
back hair left unbothered she’d
remind him, Je t’adore.
So hurrah for back hair gentlemen!
Hurrah for beards and fluff, but if the
hot wax comes a’rendering -
be bold, be brave, be buff.

© Elise Batchelor June 2010

Rosa the Russian Beautician and the Michael Caton

    Rosa and the John Brumby

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