I don't know whether it's because I just saw 'Bright Star' on dvd the other night (loathed the film, but have a soft spot for the 'Romantics'...) or what - but I have the sudden compulsion to write a sonnet, in praise of a girl named "Kemy".
Who is "Kemy" you ask?
Only the provider of the most amazing waxing and threading technique I have ever had the fortune to experience.
For the past two hours (two hours!!) she has painstakingly, and with the methodology of a perfectionist (takes one to know one) rid my body of all extraneous hair. Now, bearing in mind that I am the most un-hirstute person EVER, even I was shocked that she would spend that much time on me. In fact her first words were, "But you HAVE no hair!"
This is true, but nonetheless I wanted to be stripped of even those miniscule bits of down that once sparsely covered my thighs. I wanted to become completely hairless. And now I am.
Not only did she give me the kind of first rate treatment I would imagine would be reserved strictly for princesses in the oil rich Middle East, but she did it in such a painless fashion that it actually felt like a very pleasant massage much of time....
(Those of you reading this, who have ever deemed wearing a bikini necessary, and have thus taken the steps necessary in order to prevent yourself from becoming an object of ridicule, thereby subjecting yourself to the torture that is waxing - will KNOW what an amazing claim this is)
I actually started to nod off at one point, and was so relaxed that I began to drool.
And just when I thought it was over, she pulled out a long piece of white string and began threading me for odd flecks of hair which might have had to audacity to stay put during the rigorous waxing process.
Now although this dedication to precision was very welcome, and quite astounding in itself, I must confess to feeling mildly ill at ease when Kemy began threading my bikini line. Surely I wasn't paying her enough to devote so much time and intensive labour to what is ultimately - let's face it - an undervalued part of my anatomy.
But no, she attacked that area with relish and soon I relaxed and began to think of other areas of my body she might transform into baby soft smooth zones.
Eventually of course we ran out of hair to remove. We both surveyed my clean as a whistle body.
"Is good?" she asked hesitantly.
"Oh yeah. WAY better than in England...way better. You are amazing," I gushed.
I handed over a sum of money equivalent to the size of the tip I gave to the rubbish girl who last waxed me in London the day we flew here. Then I handed over a few more rumpled notes in sheer gratitude.
She was overjoyed and grateful. I was ecstatic.
I love India...