Well, not quite “alfresco,” but close enough.

Suddenly, summer is upon us here in O to the HI-O. On Sunday we were bundled up for the cold, and now it is 89 degrees. I’m a summer baby, so this is my season. Muggy, sunny, lightning bugs and barbeques. Ahhh….

All of our windows have been wrenched free from their winter spots and our obscenely loud attic fan is going full blast. For the life of me, I cannot bring myself to turn on the AC this early in the year.

I got to partake in my very first “Shower Alfresco” today after our morning walk. It was AMAZING. Windows open, nothing but sun to light up the room, birds twittering away… It was a fantastic break from the normal deafening roar of the water bouncing off the walls; it was quieter today. Calm. And I was alone, which is not always the case, so it was literal and figurative breath of fresh air. It made me feel like I was here…

via Sheraton Maldives Full Moon Resort. (Full moon, no kidding.)

Instead of here.

Yes, that is my actual master bathroom. This was before we moved in. It still looks exactly the same. But dirtier. Nice. Sorry it’s blurry.

And with this bathing experience came some clarity. It gave me a moment of pause to realize some really big things. Namely, hair removal. No, not just my legs. My head. Oh. My. God. When the hell did this happen???

Look at that! Split at the ends for extra body and texture! This is the moment I realize that my eyebrows also need help. It never ends. Sheesh.

Time to get my tush in gear and head on over to Great Clips. My twenty-six year old self just let out an audible gasp of horror. Yes, Great Clips. Or Boricks, Master Cuts… I really don’t care. Since this mop hasn’t seen hide nor hair of a blow dryer in eight months, why on Earth would I spend $75.00 on a haircut? I’ve just had another moment of clarity. I have become my tight-wad father. Oh. God.

Yes, my hair needs to be cut (shorn is probably the more appropriate term), but my legs are in need of some serious landscaping of their own. Since my dive into at-home waxing a few weeks ago, my legs are in dire need of some TLC. Wait, let me back up a little…

Picture this; Nathan is wallowing away on Reddit (which is an Internet black hole; a seriously good way for us nerds to waste oh, say, three hours a day) and I am perched next to him in the family room waxing my legs. Now, this might sound weird, but the only time we get to spend together is when the kids go to sleep and I’ll be damned if I am going to waste it holed up on the bathroom floor with a piece of driftwood clenched between my teeth for the pain company. He is wincing as I let out my little squeaks of pain as I rip the hair from my legs, but only marginally wincing.

Seriously? This is what we do to ourselves for beauty? I am pretty sure waxing was listed as a no-no in the Geneva Conventions, but here we are, paying an arm and a leg to have our hair follicles brutally ripped from our bodies. And all I get is a little “Gosh, I’m sorry, babe. That must really hurt.” ?!?!?? ?!? How I managed to do this to my legs and bikini line in high school is a mystery. You would think carrying two human-effing-beings in my uterus for eighteen months would raise my tolerance for pain, but no.

Forty-five minutes into this torture and I have a patchy, half of a leg to show for it. And at that moment, after tossing the pile of sticky strips in the trash, I did this:

“Fuck it. I’m shaving tomorrow.”

And now that I am in my calming, breezy, meditative state in my shower this morning, I realize that the hairs that were shaved are – oh, there are no words for how long, and the ones that were waxed are starting to look like they are all going to be ingrown. What is a girl to do? I can’t win.

But, I take stock in the fact that I am alone, and clean, and am getting my haircut by some recent beauty-school-drop-out this evening, and everything seems just a little alright.