"Waxing," Benedict replies simply, moving his mouth as little as possible. If he's a little bit embarrassed by it, this shows only in his eyes, which regard Vlast with a touch of wariness: don't be weird, dudes do this all the time, at least you weren't here for the below-the-face part,

gripping a bit of dried wax between his thumb and forefinger, he rips it from his upper lip with a sound that's half-gasp and half-yip.

"I don't like," he explains, tears in his eyes, "when there's hair on my face." BEAUTY IS PAIN