Which Way's Up

We are now locked into bottomless therapy for our son. We were locked into bottomless therapy for our eldest child years ago but it was always a bit of a blurry line. Had we really done anything as parents to truly scar that first child forever? As of a few days ago, as this question pertains to our second child, the answer came loud, clear, and in bold, capital letters.

YES. 100% YES. THIS CHILD IS SCARRED. THERAPY WILL BE ON OUR DIME FOR LIFE.

Our infraction really was an innocent “Whoopsie!” but I did see the damage almost immediately as this child’s face struggled to figure out which stage of grief to start with. I know this kind of thing happens to all parents. You’re just innocently going about your business and BAM! a kid appears in your bedroom. Sure, this kid is wrapping up his final years as a teenager, and, sure, one could say he should know better. Still, his loud and reactionary words of “Let’s have a lesson on how doors work!” were both accurate and hilarious.

Oh, right the business. It wasn’t what you think. Or maybe it was. I don’t know your life.

If you are a female with a Facebook feed, then you are probably getting inundated with clickbait for at-home IPLs. IPL’s? What’s that you say? Okay, thank you for coming to my commercial.

IPL, or Intense Pulsed Light, are devices used to remove unwanted hair on a more long-term basis. Companies like Nood, Lux, Braun, and a bajillion random others with Scrabble-worthy names are now selling residential IPLs. The benefit? Groomers across the globe can annihilate the fuzz found in underarms, mustaches, or lower bits in the comfort of their own homes.

I didn’t buy into the IPL craze at first though I have enjoyed the clean playing field for years. No reason really, just my preference. Legs and pits? Yes, mostly dictated by societal norms and a good razor. Ladybits? A tricky space that involves weighing the danger of a close-shave catastrophe versus landing spread eagle in an aesthetician’s office. Look, it’s really, really, really hard to see the entirety of our down-below areas; therefore, I’ve given my aesthetician full access for decades. Yes, I’ve occasionally tried to take back the plight but I just don’t bend that way, and waxing leaves a soft grow-back while the razor turns one of my husband’s favorite areas into a cactus farm.

Sidenote: In pandemic times, we did attempt the home-wax method. It did not go well. My husband was skirting the edge of weeping as he ripped fuzz by the follicles while I gently encouraged him to keep going because WOMEN CAN HANDLE THIS SHIT.

When my latest aesthetician left the area, I hemmed and hawed because Did I really want to start vetting a new one again? The test drive process on a good wax can be treacherous.

Enter the IPL.

Facebook, you read the room. I did some quick and very unofficial research, clicked add to cart, and was ready to start obliterating my short and curlies in no time. Kind of. I realized immediately that this was not something I could do alone. With the need for special safety glasses, bifocals, a bright light, and loads of flexibility…well, I called my husband from the bench once again.

The results have been great.

My armpits remain permanently. mostly bare save a quick monthly touch-up.

I never did start my legs because, well, I keep forgetting and they are long. Okay, they aren’t long, but still…it just seems like a commitment.

And those ladybits? Making progress though slowly as it does take two to tango and sometimes bad things happen that involve your children and, well, I’ve been a little lax in the lazer cadence of my cooter.

When I first started zapping my tiny tresses, my husband was admittedly impressed with the results. So impressed, actually, that he thought he might give it a try. Sure, I said, Why not? Manscaping is all the rage now! I threw on my bifocals, the safety glasses, and a headlamp, and approached his playing field. We started a weekly home spa session that never, ever would have appeared on my radar as a great way to bond.

The night my son’s life changed forever began with the best intentions. He had just hopped into the bathtub so my husband and I decided to start that weekly spa session. The prepping is quick and easy as it only involves getting out the IPL, the goggles, the headlamp, and our bifocals. Next, we both strip down to our Adam & Eve outfits and take turns sprawled out on the bed while the other takes the business end. With the flash of a bright light, hair is singed to the follicle over and over and over. Occasionally, we grab the waft of a burnt nether hair, but that’s really the only oddity.

I’m not sure why we didn’t close the bedroom door.

I think maybe because we always have our bedroom door open unless we are doing, well, the actual business.

It was 8:00 pm – way too early for actual business and the kid was safely tucked into the tub so, off we went. I took the first session of smite and then traded places with my husband. It’s a bit trickier (in my opinion) to zap him as there are all sorts of dangly things that need to be lifted and pushed aside. No big deal, right? Right. Expect that my husband is a man and, therefore, all that pushing and lifting sometimes…let’s say…intrigues him.

I was fully engrossed in blasting my husband’s bits, oblivious to anything around me…including the pitter-patter of my son’s size 12 footsteps as he darted into the room to see what in the Sam Hill was going on. It turns out he was not in the tub at all when he noticed bright flashes coming from our bedroom as if a strobe light was on the fritz. In a panic, he darted in to see what could possibly be happening.

What was happening was that his father was lying naked on the bed while his stepmother was holding his junk in one hand, wearing two pairs of glasses, aiming a headlamp that junk, and burning the hair off. What happened next was that his stepmother froze in place while praying that she was invisible.

I was not invisible. Nothing was invisible. All was there, right out in the open, flooding his eyes with permanent damage.

Let’s have a lesson on how doors work!

Our son later explained his dash to our den in what can only be blamed on his recent acquisition of a first aid certification. He was enjoying a nice, quiet moment (post-shower…turns out it wasn’t a bath) when he noticed a flashing light from somewhere. It was the kind of moment in which he thought he saw but he wasn’t really sure if it was real but then, sure enough, there it was again. And again. And again. And again and, yes, he sprinted to our bedroom with confidence that there was an electrical something going very wrong.