True Confessions of the Only Boy at Beauty School .

By Will Fennell

I began my beauty journey in a busy Sydney salon back in 1994, just two months into my diploma. I was the go-to person for all the not-so-glamorous tasks... cleaning rooms, sweeping up clipped pubic hair, and handling bottom waxes for a range of wonderfully neurotic clients. For a boy like me, a self-proclaimed homo with a love for lip gloss and an obsession with body waxing, it felt like a dream come true.

I’d heard whispers that the Saturday before the big Mardi Gras party was the height of chaos, and they were dead right. It was makeover madness; I found myself waxing backs and cracks (no sacks yet, much to my disappointment), trimming the chests of muscly blokes, and shaping pubic hair into lush, perfect hedges. I even tinted eyelashes and eyebrows, wondering who would really notice in the dimly lit halls, but I quickly learned that my role was to cater to their beauty needs, no questions asked, finishing off with manicures and pedicures too, using sparkly nail polishes reminiscent of disco balls.

Amid the excitement, one client-catastrophe truly stands out. He entered, causing the salon to fall silent. He was the biggest, most muscular man I had ever seen. Was it his enormous size? The glossy shine of his sun-tanned, moisturised skin? Or perhaps it was that he had squeezed his massive frame into the tiniest, most daring pair of cut-off denim shorts I’ve ever seen, but I just couldn’t look away. In short, his waxing appointment got mixed up, and my boss (my current business partner, Peta) asked me to do my very first full-body wax on this steroidal Adonis.

From the outset, I was naturally skilled at this job. Over the next three hours, I carefully removed every stray hair from his perfectly chiselled, tanned, and polished body. Meanwhile, he shared stories of how every man at Mardi Gras would drool and worship him. I didn’t doubt it; I was transfixed by this real-life Ken doll.

Finally, I put down my spatula and declared, “Done!” His reaction? “What about my eyebrows?” As you know, shaping eyebrows with wax requires skill, and although I had practised during training, I felt more confident using tweezers. I recommended tweezer plucking, but he loudly rejected the idea, insisting they needed to be waxed.

In a moment of desperation, I left the room, seeking help, only to see a line of clients and my boss, overwhelmed by chaos from her own hair removal mishap. Summoning my courage, I stepped in to take charge. I repeated a confidence mantra, silently prayed to my Goddess (Kylie Minogue), and prepared to apply the wax as instructed.

Using the “strip waxing” technique I had learned for legs (which was my first mistake)I carefully applied the wax beneath his brow, pressed down three times with firm pressure, then counted to one before swiftly pulling it off.

Maybe I used too much wax. Perhaps I pressed too hard. Or maybe the universe was teaching him a lesson in humility for his vanity. But when that wax strip was pulled off, nearly his entire eyebrow came away with it. He looked like he had Hitler’s moustache above his left eye.

My heart sank, and I felt a wave of nausea come over me.

What followed was a whirlwind of chaos. Tears spilled, his and mine! along with an outrage that reverberated through the salon as he shrieked at my boss, “This little bastard has ruined Mardi Gras!” He stormed out, still hurling threats in my direction. I looked at my boss, bracing for the worst, ready for my inexperienced 19-year-old self to be sacked. But instead, her stern expression softened into laughter, the kind that rang out louder than anything I’d ever heard.

About that incredible sulk, he never returned, and I never used strip wax on eyebrows again. The moral of this story is simple: you learn from your mistakes, making them just as valuable as your successes.

Until next time, keep reaching for the stars.

Will x