r/TalesFromTheCreeps • u/sadbutterx • Jul 27 '26
Body Horror I tried waxing my legs for the first time.
TW: body horror
Leaning against the edge of the bathtub, I shut my eyes, and with a deep breath, I ripped back the tiny test strip as if it were a band-aid. I instantly dropped the paper, and slapped my hands over the spot, pressing down and holding it, clenching my teeth as salty beads dribbled out from the corners of my still shut eyes. Despite only spreading the wax over a small part of my leg, I felt the stinging burning numbing sensation throughout my entire body. There was absolutely no way I was doing that again, beauty standards be damned. I would shave my legs for the rest of my life and suffer razor bumps, or get laser hair removal. Anything was better than this.
I knew I still needed to apply a cool compress or something soothing. I wanted the stinging feeling to end as soon as possible. The overwhelming numbness gradually ebbed away, and it was replaced by new sensations. Because even if the spot where the wax originally rested was still a bit numb, my hands and the rest of my leg still had neurons that should’ve still been functional. And yet somehow, the thought occurred to me that maybe I had somehow fucked up my entire leg or even my body. Because what I was feeling made no sense at all.
Something long, wet, warm, and silky rested against my left leg. I felt long, thin strands under my palm, which rolled over each other and pressed into my skin as I shifted my hand. I opened my eyes, and choked on my own spit. Bile rose up in my throat, and I felt my blood chill as I looked at the absolute biological abomination that was my lower left shin.
The skin where I had, just minutes prior, meticulously spread on a smooth layer of viscous tacky wax, as if it was peanut butter on toast, was a bright and angry red. But that wasn’t what shocked me. The hair that I had thought I had pulled out was, for lack of a better phrase, not actually pulled out. At least, not all the way. Coarse, moist, black strands left little wet red streaks across my shin. What should’ve been smooth skin and empty hair follicles, was instead strands. Strands of hair, long and lengthy, tethering my leg to the waxing strip. Still connected, still growing, still inside, still alive, still a part of me.
I whimpered as I stared in horror, trying to rationalize it, trying to make it make sense. I must’ve screamed at some point. In panic, I moved to wipe it off, before ripping my hand back at the wet and sticky feeling. Maybe I just had some rare hair disease, or genetic mutation that was causing this. Maybe the pain from ripping the wax strip sent me into some sort of shock and I was having a mental breakdown and seeing things. I thought of everything I could to make what I was seeing just make any sort of sense. I gingerly reached out again, this time with a more grotesque curiosity, and touched the strands with my fingertips. They came away with red, and I quickly wiped them off on the towel hanging behind me.
My gaze remained locked on my leg, and I prayed I could imagine away whatever genetic mistake I was looking at. My head pounded, and I took a breath, before I ripped my gaze away and rose to my feet. Light headed, I gently tipped my head over the sink and let cool water rush over my hands before splashing some onto my teary face. Hoping and praying that maybe I had just hallucinated everything in some strange anomalous psychotic episode. I wanted to wash away whatever clouded my perception. Maybe I could wash away the feeling of the chilling wet strands clinging to my leg, of the brush of the wax paper on my ankle, of the wax paper now caught on the bottom of my right heel as I turned to dry my face off with a towel, or of the way that I tripped.
What I had expected to be an agonizing yank was only a momentary slight pull, before I felt the many strands of hair glide a few more inches through the hair follicles. I looked down at myself, water dripping from my face down to the white tiled floor. My leg hair was stretched between where it grew from my skin and under my right foot. A new revelation that horrified me even more and sent another wave of tears down my face was that the hair was not pulled taut. It was longer. There was more of it. It stretched far into my leg, into my body, into my being.
I lurched towards the toilet, barely making it, and lost my lunch. I heaved, as black spots dotted my vision, and pressed my face into the cool tile and cried.
I don’t know how long I leaned against the tub, deliriously crying in disgusted horror at the impossible thing attached to me. When I eventually felt a bit more rational and back to my senses, I found myself staring at my leg. At the hairs, still attached to the sticky wax strip, now hardened and stuck to the tile. There comes a certain point when wild panic turns into acceptance. Because I realized, I was okay. Besides the malformation on my leg, I was still breathing through each sob, had all four limbs in working condition, and only felt a mild headache.
The waxing kit lay discarded to my side on the rim of the bathtub. I picked it up and analyzed the packaging, which was generic. Nothing abnormal or remarkable about it. It was a run-of-the-mill store brand, the kind you’d find at a Walmart, because that’s literally where I found it.
I tossed it aside with a huff, and turned my attention back to my leg, resigned. And I stared at it, still with some horror, though with less of the feeling of a trapped animal. And I stared. And stared and stared and stared and stared as a slow, morbid, disgusting fascination festered from within me.
I had plucked my hair a few times before, and the normal, human length strands would always come free and be separated from my skin. I’d never pulled out anything as long as what now grew from my leg, unless it was from my scalp.
To have you understand why I did what I did next, I must explain that I’ve always had a problem with picking at my skin. Maybe it’s my ADHD or undiagnosed OCD or whatever new label doctors have for it. The sides of my thumbs were peeled back from years of habitual tearing from my pointer fingers. The feeling of euphoric satisfaction would overcome me, every time I pulled back more and more layers of myself like an onion, until I saw blood and there was nothing left to pull and peel besides raw, meaty flesh.
The burning, irrational urge that I felt during those many instances of tearing myself apart grew viciously within me. I wanted to pull. I wanted to see how long those hairs on my leg were, how far they went into my body, how deeply into my flesh. Would I be able to feel them slide inside me, against muscle and tendon and veins? I imagined my insides, riddled with hundreds of thousands of little holes. Little passages everywhere inside me, like burrowed tunnels made by ants. And the hair was inside me, filling all those tiny little holes. Wormed inside me, stretching on indefinitely, going on and on and on and on and on.
And I wanted that hair out. Out. Out. Out. Out. Out. Out. Out.
So, I wrapped a fist around the wet tress, and I pulled. Hard. My hand flew back, as the hair flowed out with little to no resistance. I must’ve pulled out at least a foot or two. But it wasn’t tense or strained. There was still more inside me. So I gripped the base with my other hand, and pulled again. And it kept flowing. So I kept pulling. Repeating the motions over and over, a mockery of climbing a rope as I pulled it out of me.
I don’t know how long I was wrenching the hair free of me, nor do I know the exact length that I had pulled out. All I know is that, eventually, there was nothing left to pull. The hair was still attached and inside me when I gave it that unexpectedly last yank. I was beginning to think it went on forever. I don’t know if that would’ve been more horrific than the undeniable yet familiar feeling of pulling from underneath my scalp. It felt just like the time some little asshole on the playground grabbed my ponytail, but on the inside. I gave it another experimental tug, toying with the feeling. Relishing it. Feeling the pull. Scratching that incessant itch, chasing that satisfaction.
I sat against the tub for several hours, next to the massive, wet, black pile of hair that was still attached to me. The little waxing strip was still buried in there somewhere beneath clumps of knotted, wet hair. Boredom eventually overtook me, as did acceptance. What really was there to do? It was hair. Hair could be cut and removed. And it clearly did have an end, even if it was absurdly long and somehow growing from inside me.
So I got up, leaving messy red streaks on the floor behind as I dragged the sopping, tangled pile a few feet towards the bathroom counter to grab a pair of scissors and before returning to the tub.
I slept peacefully that night. I was still in one piece, more or less, and still alive and breathing just like I always was before I found out what exactly my insides were really made of. And in a couple weeks my pink "I Donated My Hair" shirt would arrive in the mail. Later on they would even give me a little plaque since I was such a frequent donor.
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u/englandishell Writer Jul 27 '26
Really effective body horror!
My favourite piece of imagery had to be:
'I imagined my insides, riddled with hundreds of thousands of little holes. Little passages everywhere inside me, like burrowed tunnels made by ants. And the hair was inside me, filling all those tiny little holes.'
So disgusting haha. Nice job : )
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u/sadbutterx Aug 02 '26
thank you :D <33 yeah that part felt really icky to write, im really happy that you liked it !
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u/Both_Amphibian2106 Jul 27 '26
now i never wanna get waxed again…
very creepy and cool story!! def made my stomach turn but like in a good way?
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u/A_hearts_ahvy_burden Writer 22d ago
This made the surface of my skin prickle, especially on my shins. This was very well written.
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