Tyler is busy working at the hotel, when I don my bathing suit cycling gear and head out for a short, two-minute walk to the beach. I've barely set foot on the sand when I feel a skinny arm wrapping around my shoulder, guiding me over to a reclining wooden chair. With a smile, my pinky-sworn beautician, who has appeared out of thin air, announces:
I wait for you yestahday, but you no come!
Two hours later, when the excruciating hair-removal fest finally ends, I have relatively smooth legs, and an offer to do my armpits as well. This time, I don't fall for pinkie swears or puppydog eyes. Instead, I instinctively shove my hands under my arms, blocking all access to what little hair lies underneath.
Fearing she might try to give me a "sample", I utter a quick and horrified, "No, thank you!"