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The 60s Called, They Want their Bush Back

The alarm has been sounded, a state of emergency announced. Women everywhere peel themselves from the sofa, united under a singular battle cry.

The cause, you ask? Preventing thousands of deaths? Supporting the crippled NHS? HA. Don’t make me LAUGH.

This is the TRUE crisis of quarantine. The tragedy of the ages. The life altering, confidence crippling devastation of the amazon rainforest stretching across the UK. Yes, you’ve guessed it – I’m talking about the almighty wax.

Ladies, this is no laughing matter. Separated from our beloved salons, we have become a mass of gorillas, our slippery seal selves of the past nothing but a distant memory. ‘Let it go”, I hear you cry, ‘no one needs it in quarantine anyway’.

To you, young fool, I say FALSE. Newsflash, babe, the wax is a personal preference. It is not for the sole purpose of male (or female, gotchu b x) attention, but is an essential part of being a boss ass sexy motherfucker. This makes it a necessity.

And yet, Britain’s wax rooms remain firmly shut, and Helga the hotwaxer won’t return my calls. The at home wax? Physically impossible – I’m a woman, not a human pretzel. With women across the UK now too weighed down with hair to even leave the house, what’s a girl to do?

WELL – taking a page out of Trump’s book, we’re grabbing this problem by the pussy, and taking to the streets (with two metre distancing of course, we’re not actually stupid).

Standing in solidarity, no longer will we suffer hair as long as Hagrid’s beard. No longer will we be called sir at Sainsbury’s check out. We say ENOUGH. Bring back the wax, baby.

With this bright light of the hope now shining down through the forest, Quaranzine hopes this marks the end of the waxing drought, before the lawnmower becomes the last resort….

By Camy Sandford

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