Late at night, when everyone else in the house is asleep, I sometimes creep out to the living room to watch infomercials. And I enjoy it. It's a guilty pleasure of mine - I know the products are most likely junk, the claims are ridiculous, and the acting is horrible, but I can't help myself. This secret addiction is how I first became acquainted with Aussie Nads No-Heat Hair Removal Gel.
The infomercial revolves around a small tub of fluorescent green ooze that suspiciously resembles radioactive waste in a low budget sci-fi film. This gel is the heart of the Nads hair removal system. With a radiant smile and an undeniably cool Australian accent, Nads creator Sue Ismiel applies the revolutionary goo to the legs, arms, faces, and underarms of a variety of women who are sporting equally radiant smiles, even after Sue cruelly rips out their body hair by the roots.
Using Nads is simple (or so the infomercial would have you believe). Use the plastic
spatula to smear the gel on the hairy area, take a
linen strip and press it down on the gel-laden skin. Firmly rub the strip three times in the direction of hair growth, then pull the strip off quickly in the opposite direction. Or, as Sue puts it, "Just place the strip, rub, and rip!" (How can a product with rhyming,
singsong instructions go wrong?) In theory, the hair should stick to the strip, leaving you with
baby-smooth,
hairless skin. The principle behind Nads is almost identical to the principle behind
waxing, but Nads works at
room temperature, and is supposed to be less
painful.
Of course, the infomercial supports these claims. Sue takes her allegedly wonderful Nads gel on a tour of Australia. We see her remove hair from (paid) volunteers in the studio, and she makes special stops to women's houses to demonstrate the product. Sue doesn't just remove hair with her Nads, however. In a particularly surreal scene designed to demonstrate the non-toxic properties of the gel, Sue and half a dozen of her (hired) female friends sit around a table and eat spoonfuls of Nads, remarking afterwards, "Actually, it's quite tasty!" In a heart-stopping finale, Nads is entered in a "wax-off" on an Australian beach, where bikini-clad women try it and rate it compared to other hair removal products. Since the contest is sponsored by Nads, it is unsurprising that Nads wins.
In a perfect world, I would have no need for a product like Nads, because society would accept my God-given right to have hairy legs. I would win generous cash prizes for my thick, luxurious leg hair. Unfortunately, the American ideal of feminine beauty stigmatizes innocent body hair, and thick, luxurious leg hair is more likely to win you an honorary position in a circus sideshow than any awards. Thus, I make at least a token effort to keep myself relatively hairless, and Nads' promises of easy, painless hair removal that lasts 4-6 weeks were too good to ignore. Besides, I found the name Nads to be riotously amusing, and the infomercial is strangely fascinating. My better judgment must have been taking a potty break, because I forked over a ridiculous sum of money and Nads arrived at my doorstep two weeks later.
The instruction manual states that hair must be at least 1/8" long to remove with Nads. I was eager to try Nads, but my legs were freshly shaven, and my eyebrows just plucked. In a fit of anti-hair enthusiasm, I decided to try Nads on my forearms, which are not particularly hairy, but the only place on my body other than my head that met the requirement (I wisely decided to save the bikini area until after I had tried it somewhere else - I am most definitely a fool, but I'm not a complete idiot). I placed the strip, rubbed, and ripped. And screamed. And cried. The area I had applied Nads to was nearly hairless. It was also quickly turning an exotic, "I'm a battered woman" shade of purple. The purple of the bruise complemented the little bloody red dots (caused by burst capillary vessels at the roots of the hair) quite nicely. Shaving's inconvenient and waxing can be painful, but Nads literally caused injury. The bruises didn't start to fade for almost a week.
There is one thing that the infomercial didn't lie about - Nads really is rather tasty. The main ingredients are honey and molasses, and while I wouldn't make a meal of it, a cautious taste revealed it to be quite sweet. However, about six months after my purchase, I rediscovered my tub of Nads in a dusty corner under the bathroom sink. Although the tub was tightly sealed and Nads does not appear to have an expiration date, when I opened the jar, the gel had hardened quite a bit, akin to a massive hunk of depilatory candy. Nummy.
The Nads web site has some more product information, including the hilarious story behind Nads' inception:
http://www.nads.com
Yes, I am aware that "nads" has slang connotations, which are not confined to the British, but have made it over to this side of the Atlantic as well. However, as someone pointed out, it could be considered crass and immature to draw attention to that fact, which is why I originally left it at "I found the name Nads to be riotously amusing..."