Months ago I decided to experiment with leg waxing; mainly because I'd never done it before, and the cold wax strips were on sale. I applied, patted, and ripped them away, as per the instructions. It wasn't much of an owie; somewhat discomfoting, but nothing like having those horrid cloth band-aids, so common during the 70s, ripped off your flesh by a sadistic parent figure. Having tried the waxing a couple of times, I gave it over because it didn't seem to be doing the job. Ever since I discovered hair-removal as a young girl, I'd always gone the Way Of The Razor. I'm used to it. I know it well. I understand its mysteries. The left-over wax strips went into that mysterious closet in my bathroom wherein I keep cleaning supplies, toilet paper, and things men don't like to know women use. I decided today that I was due for removal. Not feeling like fussing with the razor I hauled out the strips. Now I remember why I stowed them. Hours later, and my legs feel like a jar you pulled the sticky label off of that you've washed and washed and scraped but it still feels like fly paper.