“I’m faking it? No you’re faking it!”

I hate taking photographs. Like legit, if someone put a gun to my head and asked me to smile for the camera and told me he would let me go if I smiled nicely, search for me with a gunshot wound in a dump somewhere.

I guess that’s not funny.

Oh well. Take two.

I wouldn’t say anti-photogenicism (yeah, that’s a word – look it up) runs in the family because my elder sister photographs like a dream. My brother on the other hand – you know those kids who smiled for the camera and then when you looked at the photos, they looked like they were in intense pain? – yeah, he was/(is?) one of those kids.

And don’t even get me started on my brace face years. Today when I look back at my final-year school pictures, I can feel the pain oozing out of the photos by the sheer effort it took me to smile trying to show as little metal as physically possible without ending up looking like someone punched me in the balls (I don’t have any.. not because someone punched it into oblivion.. but because I am a woman) right before taking the photograph.

I studied in a weird school where we didn’t have yearly class photographs taken. And for that, I’m forever grateful.

Now imagine this person (as being asked to have a good picture taken to be sent for suitable-match “hunting”? Like Tinder, but instead of an app, you have middle aged uncles/aunties sending around your photos and sending you photos of ‘nice boys’ back. And if you’re interested, more details follow. And instead of hooking up, the swiping right results in marriage. No big deal.


Excuse me while I go off screaming into the sunset. Alone.




So I’m at that stage in life where I’m just getting into terms with being a lady and the nuances that come along with it. For starters, I wish I had more make-upy stuff. I’m tired of 14 year old make up ‘gurus’ on YouTube admonishing me because I cannot contour like a Kardashian.

Contour – pretty word though.

ANYWAY, this post is not about that. This post is about waxing.

Usually I get my hands waxed from the salon, or my sister does it for me. But yesterday I thought, hey this looks quite simple, I can do it myself. (Translate to sister refused to, even after hordes and hordes of begging)


What followed was an utter chaos of human hands, wax, clothes and angry furniture.

This is what went down.

“How hard could it be?!”, I thought, holding the wax jar. Heat the wax to a temperature close enough to burn your hands, take the stick like thing, dip it in the wax, take it out, whoops, just dripped a bit on my pants no problem-o, alright, just carefully (ah hot hot hot!) smear in the direction of hair growth. Now take the wax strip, pat it nice and smooth on the arm and pull in the direction opposite to the hair growth…ok nice and slow… pat pat pat, and LET IT RIP!




Apparently that wasn’t quite opposite to the direction of the hair growth – and things get QUITE MESSY when that happens.

I ended up with hands with half of the hair still on them (at one point, I even contemplated leaving one arm un-waxed), oh and also, mean looking red spots. Not to mention, table cloth from which I could literally have scrapped off enough wax for my next self inflicted torture session. Umm, the floor too. Remind me again why I thought this would be easy in the first place?

At least my niece got a kick out of watching the entire scene.


Reality Check!

Seventeen year old wishful me had thought a few things would happen by the time I turned twenty one. Now that I’m a few months away from 22, I thought, Hey! Let’s take a trip down memory lane, shall we!

Le conversation between my past and present. You can guess which is which.

“These zits are going to be history”

Sorry soul sister, but these zits still manage to magnificently materialize out of your forehead or your cheeks or nose, you name it, right before a big party or that occasional get-together you have with your high school mates where, everyone a. looks fabulous b. looks fabulous c. looks fabulous. And just for the record, you still look like you could do with a few extra pounds and ahem, up there too. And no, you still don’t go to the gym. Or do power yoga. But if it’s any consolation, you wish you did – every single morning.

“I’ll be in the perfect job”

Far from it. Turns out, you actually have a lot of hard work to do before that happens.

“I’mma be rolling in them dollars”

Stop talking like you’re gangster. And no! You’re not ‘rolling in them dollars’. Who do you think you are?! Your bank account figures are disgraceful.

“I will love Linkin Park forever”

You still love them but you just don’t listen to their music anymore. You’re just 21 and loud music hurts your ears already.

“My skin & hair care routine is going to be impeccable. Healthy choices will be second nature”

See answer to ‘rolling in them dollars’. Impeccable skin care routine come at a cost apparently.  And as far as healthy choices are concerned,



“My rotis will be so round”

Sorry, they still look like somebody with a rolling pin went crazy on a pile of dough. Making mom think you’ll make a good daughter-in-law for someone someday?  


Forget about it. 

“I will have taken things to the next level with the love of my life”

Umm.. WHO?!

So yeah! Let me know what other bubbles of your delusional younger self you have had to, unfortunately, burst!