Smooth

"It's only lunch."

"Yes", said my husband. "But wouldn't it be better to see him feeling sexy and confident, even if it's 'only lunch'?"

He had a point. And so, about two weeks ago, I spent my Saturday morning first getting my hair done (cut into a rather racy bob, and some highlights - daring, for me), and then off to get my nails done (all twenty of them), and my legs waxed. I told myself that it was summer now, and I should want to go bare legged without worrying about people thinking I was some sort of werewolf.

Bethany - "Call me Beth" - usually does my nails, and usually just my hands, so she picked up that this was a special occasion. I made up something about it being our anniversary, that Rob was taking me out somewhere to celebrate, and I thought it was worth taking a bit of trouble. We talked about the pain we put ourselves through for our men as she ripped hair from my legs, by the roots. I was glad I'd taken a pain killer beforehand.

"Can I make a suggestion?", she asked as she moved up my thighs with the warm spatula. "If you want, I'll be happy to do your bikini line. In fact, we're doing a special offer on that area."

I looked down. I'd come out in a light cotton summer skirt, which I'd gradually hiked up ahead of Beth and her hot wax. It was now up around my hips, showing my plain light blue cotton knickers, and the hair peeping out of the sides.

"What's the 'Special Offer'"?

"30% off Bikini, G-String, Brazilian and Hollywood waxes."

Yes, I asked for the translation. From memory, Bikini tidies up the sides so you can't see any hair with a normal swimsuit. G-String is a but more radical, taking a bit more off the sides. Brazilian removes any hair 'down below', but leaves a 'landing strip' on top, and Hollywood is, well, everything. The lot.

She went thought this, and the stopped. I realised she was waiting for an answer. Now, I've always been fairly laissez-faire about that area, just letting it grow wild, although Rob had dropped hints thoughout the years that he'd be happy to help out if I fancied a change of style. However, I remember a chat I'd had with my future lunch partner, months ago, where he'd asked about that, and he'd said he liked either lots of hair or no hair. At the time, I'd dismissed that as another example of male weirdness - I mean, who wants a woman that looks like a girl? - but at that moment, in that cubicle, with Beth, I had a wicked thought.

"Hollywood, please."

She offered my a paper thong to wear, but it seemed daft to give her an obstacle to work around - after all, she sees dozens of women like this every week, apparently (a fact that got me thinking about if I knew any of her other clients, and would I guess who they might be). So, skirt and knickers discarded, she started with some clippers, buzzing away the worst of the grown and leaving it looking like a skinhead just before the monthly visit to the barbers. Not a bad comparison, as it happens.

Next, she briefed my on the wax itself. I'd feel warmth, she said, then it would sting as she pulled it off. It would help if I pulled the skin really tight when she gave the signal that she was about to pull. Oh, and it didn't matter if I make a noise. The cubicles were soundproofed.

With that, I felt the first warmth on the top part of the remaining patch of fuzz, was told to pull the skin, and then there was a ripping sound, and an explosion of pain in my head. I'd just about got used to it on my legs, but there must be more nerve endings down there (you think?), because it was about ten times worse. Beth, though, complimented my on my stoicism, spread some more warmth, and yanked again. This time it was easier.

She worked quickly, I suspect so as not to give me time to abort the procedure. She'd apply the wax, press a strip onto it, position my hand to pull and then she would pull in the opposite direction. I'd catch a glimpse of the strip being disposed of, all covered in hair - my hair, as was - and then on to the next.

She had me with my legs spread wide enough to put her in good company (husband, doctor), and worked down between my legs, both sides. I thought she'd finished, but when I looked down, she'd left a small patch just above where the slit starts.

"I leave that for last, because it hurts the most", she told me. Which was comforting. And she was right, for some reason it was about twice as much sting as the rest.

"Do you want the back done too?"

Once she'd explained what she meant, I figured it would be daft to leave the job incomplete, and found myself on all fours feeling even more self conscious as the wax was applied to an even more intimate area. She then laid me back, found a few strays with a pair of tweezers, and then, just like the hairdressers, gave me a mirror to take a look.

I was pleasantly surprised. I hadn't seen myself like that since I was a little girl. My cesaerian scar wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it was, having been hidden for all these years, and, apart from the redness, the rest looked and felt rather sexy.

And then, it was off to Costas, sans underwear (Beth's suggestion) to meet up with Husband. Who was, after all, who I'd gone through all that pain for. Yes?