Right, so; I just had my first experience with postiche erasure in India. 
In other words, I got a wax.
It was slightly different to that of a Western one. (Don’t worry, I’m not going to get all up in the nit grit of it) (though my waxer lady most definitely did. Why are they so up close and personal in the private arena but so abash and reticent about such in the social sphere?). In a number of ways. As follows. 
1. The ambience. Shaye (my wee waver back in the ‘Bridge) provides an endearing environs to get plucked up in. Sometimes she has nice sounds (soothing ocean or gentle mantra-like melodies if so). Here? It ’twas to the soundtrack of the street. That constant beeping and blaring and yelling and jostling and all round joviality (the Lord Shiva festival is on at the moment, so it was like the usual raucous has been upped to the extreme manifold) that is the mayhem of India. 
Not the most desirable din when you are concentrating on keeping relaxed and stretching skin, I’ll tell you that. 
2. The layout. Call me prude, but the idea of being somewhat spreadeagled on a beauty bed in an area adjacent to what can only be deemed the family room felt a little off. The whole procedure long I was terrified Mona’s (that’s the waxer lady) husb would come home for a spot of sakkara pongal and there I would be. I mean, what would I say? “Oh, hello. Beautiful home you’ve got here. Don’t mind me.” (Luckily it was 10am and the patriarch of the place obviously doesn’t come home for morning tea). 
3. The “beauty” bed itself. Once we had established my wishes, Mona gestured (ok, more like grudgingly gesticulated – she was a tad sassy) to the bed for me to climb aboard. I saw something atop the mid-region; was it a cloth? As she darted in to retrieve it, I saw it was two half eaten roti. Her breakfast perhaps? All I know is that it was placed precisely on the bum position of the bed. 
(The bed itself was nothing much to write home about – how good is that saying? – it was a standard dentist-chair-type-affair). 
4. The product and utensils. I honestly thought Mona had pulled out a tin of Chelsea’a Golden Syrup at first glance. Especially when she prised it open with a knife. I was wondering how best to take my leave (I.e., get my pants on and gap the fuck out of there) when I clocked it was indeed a brand of “honey wax”. 
She then retrieved a thick pile of what I assumed were wax strips (hemp brown, natural looking type squares) and then some kind of blade that looks like the type you might scrap paint off with. 
But it was the poof that most intrigued me. Mona pulled out a pot of what looked like chalk, then puffed me all about with the pale pulverised particles with a sort of poi-type apparatus. As she did so, I couldn’t help pondering just how many punanis that poof had powdered. 
(I much prefer Shaye’s little station of everything set out and, yes, hygienic). 
5. The process. Nothing much to report. All I can say is Mona has no mercy. 
6. The clean up. After we were done (her scolding me for my lack of exfoliation a fair few times during) she told me to stand in the foot basin and wash myself. I did so, still a tad terrified her husb would appear (“Lovely water pressure you have here! Tell me; are all Indian homes as fortunate on the h20 front?”). 
7. The payment. We had earlier agreed on 800 rupee as the payable fee (NZD $16.87) so I handed over my discoloured Indian notes (with 60 extra as she has sewn up the hole in the crotch of three pairs of pants) (yes, out of my purchased 13. I don’t know what it is about their seating area stitching, but Danish Marie and I constantly found the fanny area fairly well fanned). I even got a little smile from her. 
Conclusions? Well, I much prefer the sterility and sanitisation of Shaye’s. And the privacy. And the context as a whole, really. But as an Indian treatment goes, I was happy with the service for the somewhat paltry price. And for some reason, I really liked Mona. So much so I promised a return when I, well, return, in August. 
You’ve got to try most things once (or twice), right? 

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