We all do stupid things in college. Of course, they all fall into different levels of stupid. There’s the classic binge drank until you woke up in the hospital having your stomach pumped, and there’s the ever popular one night stand (usually associated with the binge drinking). There are even those who make mistakes that last a lifetime such as shagging your history professor and having his love child. Many of us make the lesser mistakes, such as getting your hair cut into a mullet or mooning your peers from atop the college bell tower. My most public incident was one of the lesser, and yet exquisitely painful.

My friend and I had the not so brilliant idea to wax our legs. We had been up at all hours watching the infomercials for products that would guarantee you silky smooth legs for the next three months. These fancy products were all beyond the reach of a starving student’s budget, so we waited until we were sufficiently hairy and then took a walk to Wal-Mart where we were instantly intrigued and befuddled by the assortment of hair removal products available. There were depilatories that would simply dissolve unwanted fur by just sitting there, powders to shake, creams to smear, and exfoliates and triple bladed razors for a smooth shave. The waxing section alone boasted at least seven different kinds of wax, some you could apply with a plastic paint stick and then press a piece of paper over and rip off, and then there was the variety we chose. This kind you spread the wax over your hairy legs and then peel the wax off by yanking the wax- sans paper. We bought it because it was the cheapest one.

Back at the dorm a crowd of curious girls crowded around us out of what can only be described as morbid curiosity. The jocks shook their heads, the girly girls squealed at the pain, and the artsy types ignored us and went back to braiding their armpit hair. We shooed them away, put on some short shorts and began to nuke the wax. After a few minutes of careful stirring we began the agonizing application to our naked calves. It burned!

There didn’t seem to be much wax in the little tray so we very carefully applied a thin layer all over both of our hairy legs, yelping every time the burning hot wax hit our tender flesh. When we finished with the application process we sat back and admired the orange, gloopy logs that were our legs. We did this not for aesthetic reasons, but because we were stalling.

Finally, we decided the wax had to be hardened and it was time to rip off all of our unwanted hair. The pain had been carefully discussed at great length, but we decided that it just couldn’t be that bad, considering how many women routinely have it done, and from areas much more sensitive than the body parts we intended to shear. The payoff just had to be worth it.

We each tried to wedge a fingernail under an edge of crusted wax to get a good grip. The women on tv had seemed so perky and barely winced as the strips of wax were ripped off. It was a quick process, a moments pain for the sexiest, smooth legs possible! I could barely get my fingernail under the wax. You see, as it had been applied, the edges were made up of a very thin layer of wax, so thin, in fact, that it couldn’t actually be peeled off. After a few minutes of trying to remove this area, I cracked a thicker spot a little higher and managed to get a good hold on it. In triumph I tore the wax from my leg with gusto!

The pain was amazing. And to add insult to injury, half of the hair was still attached to my leg! As my eyes teared from the pain I realized my only way out of this mess was to keep peeling off the wax. Time and time again, I would rip off pieces of my skin only to find that half the hairs had managed to hold on during this incredibly painful exfoliation process. I found that after I had removed the thicker portions of wax the thin layers that were at random all over my calves were only to be removed by rubbing off the skin underneath it. After causing a couple of extremely raw spots to appear, both my friend and I decided that enough was enough and the weird wax patterns could simply wear off on their own. We went to bed.

The next day I awkwardly pulled on a pair of jeans (the wax acted like little rubber grips, so it took a lot of wiggling to get the pant all the way up) and attended my classes. That evening I had a rehearsal for the musical I was in. It turned out that the day’s rehearsal was actually a costume fitting. I peeled down to my skivvies only to find that the bright blue lint from my jeans was now artistically adhered to the remaining wax. Between the spots and streaks my legs looked like Jackson Pollack had had his way with them, and there was no hiding it from the rest of the cast.

The sheepish explanation of what had caused the blue leprosy to appear left the cast members rocking with combined mirth and horror. The spots remained almost until opening night, causing much undue concern over my ability to appear on stage in a knee length dress. I have not waxed my legs (or any other part of me, for that matter) since. Some things just aren’t worth it.