Paris Beauty

No no, this time I promise I will not bore you with my 'Paris is so beautiful' mantra... As misleading as this title might be, my post is about to get into much more technical details... and I pray to God the guys I know really don't read the blog!

Every time I go back to Paris I stack on hair for about a month before hand to make sure the beauty stop in the French capital will be really full-on and totally worth it. Parisian beauty salons are renowned for their perfectionist work and I swear you can recognise Parisian women in any city of the world at their top notch manucures.

So on the day of my arrival I headed to Montparnasse all jungly, and feeling slightly ashamed as always. I don't mind the full leg-waxing, it is always quite vivifying and after 10 years of practise I don't have that much hair left anyway, so no pre-appointment fright there. However, bikini waxes are another story.

You know what I mean, it is not such a pleasant experience, but even if Style recently declared the latest trend was 'all about big and bushy' in the matter, I don't buy it, I want to keep myself tidy... Tsss... sometimes I feel like I am giving you way too much insight in my life on that blog...

So in the beauty salon I go, all psychologically prepared to the next half hour torture, and ask for a full leg and 'semi-integral' bikini wax. Semi-integral is never an option in London so for once I quite enjoy not to have to explain about the cut I want. (Think neat seek square, no hair where it might cling... ohlala I am quite glad I am addressing a computer screen, because I am red to my hair roots -HEAD hair!!!)

If you ask for the same combination in London, the aesthetician will first usher you in the room, provide you with a rose-smelling tiny square of towel and one of these slightly translucent elastic paper thongs, close the door for you to change comfortably on your own, and knock before being authorized to walk in. Then they will unconditionally start with your calfs, casting a pudic and pudicker eye as they move up to the unspeakable. At that point, they hardly look at you, while you chat away about your holidays to come or the latest Obama campaign move (I tend to talk a lot in this kind of circumstances: it releases the stress).

Nothing of that sort in Paris: the waxer comes in with you, you undress under her critical eye, hoping that your cellulite won't show too much under the crude bright light, and you are not offered anything to cover your most intimate of secrets. Even if you have a skirt, they will take it upon themselves to lift it to breast level, baring all up the best part of your stomach. Then they go right to work, beginning with the bikini, in a very stern and professional manner... Don't mind the colleague who enters the room without knocking, while you are all butterfly leg-spreaded towards the door. It just adds to the charm of this truly French experience. When it comes to the most sensitive part, they ask you to pull your knee to your chin and open your legs towards the outside, which I find is a bit of an unlikely position if there is no boy involved... But come to think of it, I quite prefer that to the alternative, AKA standing on all fours ass headed to the waxer's face. Shiver!... Contrary to London, while they just get it done quickly in a nearly missionary position and don't look at things twice, the French asthetician will go out of her way to check every single millimeter of skin to leave it perfectly hairless, and will reshape the tracé until the lines are defined to perfection. It's a work of Art.

Slightly uncomfortable, but boy do boys enjoy the layout afterwards... Not to mention it is a piece of cake when the waxer finally moves to the legs: waxing holidays!



By Champagnista V