Within one minute of meeting my waxer I am on a bed, naked from the waist down and her hand is on my vagina. I’m trying to think of something to say, but all that comes to mind is: “So, have you seen any good ones lately?”
She runs over my little remark with remarks of her own: who she knows and who she waxes, and I don’t really like this. Isn’t there some kind of client-waxer priviledge? I was here for a bikini wax, but for some reason agreed to do a Brazillian because she said, “That’s what most of my clients do,” and I figure, since it’s Valentine’s Day and all, I may as well go for the gold.
She pours the burning wax onto my skin. Holy fuck face. Then she places a strip on my (god I hate this word) labia and pulls then puts her hand on the spot to soothe it or something. Holy Kelly Clarkson why the fuck do people regularly subject themselves to this? I regret my decision. I want to go home. But it’s too late of course. I can’t walk out like this–I’d look like I had mange.
Why-oh-why have I done this? Valentines shmalentines. Andy would have sex with me if I hadn’t bathed in a week so it’s not like I need to spruce it up. In fact, I should probably do the opposite–I should request a reverse Brazillian. Would that be a Portugee? I mean, I know if you want to sell the house, you’ve got to mow the lawn, but the house has been sold.
“Should I keep a strip, a triangle, or take it all off?” she asks.
“Take it all,” I whimper, not becasue I’m stoic or anything, but because I don’t get the little landing strip thing. Can you imagine if we shaved our armpits, but left a strip of hair. Or shaved our legs but left a hairy triangle?
Before I came here, I asked the girls, “Why do people get this done?”
“To feel cleaner,” D said.
“But isn’t it pubic hair’s job to keep things out, in essence, to keep things clean?”
“It’s like getting a haircut or hightlights,” she said. “You’re taking care of yourself.”
T said: “My hairdresser doesn’t tell me to hold my butt cheek while she waxes my asshole.”
“You do it for guys,” D said. “They like it the same reason they like you to swallow. It’s porno. It’s that special thing. They like it ‘casue they know we don’t.”
How romantic. The waxer takes another pull from the top. Tears well in my eyes. I don’t like it one bit. It truly hurts and I don’t get why I’ve agreed to let this stranger touch and hurt me so. What is the reward? I will never be a kinky sort of person. I will never do this again.
“You’re doing really well,” my “stylist” says then tells me about her last two clients. One yelled, “mother fucker” after each tug. One prayed. I can just hear it: Please Lord, give me the strengh to withstand the pain of hair being pulled off of my privates so that I can go forth unto this day with a clean, porno vajj. Thank you, Lord.”
Finally, I’m done. I suppose I’ll have to pay her for this pain. She tells me to be sure to exfoliate. I don’t want to look, but I take a quick peek and am horrified. It looks like Mr. Bigglesworth. I hate it! I hate my vagina!
I get used to it, however. Throughout the day, I feel like I have a kind of secret and when I’m home I can’t stop looking at it. My preschooler does a double take when I get into the shower. “Huh?” she says, but that’s all she says about it, and I’m glad she doesn’t say, “It looks like mine,” because that would be creepy.
T went and got one, too, after we talked about how ridiculous it was. I asked her what her husband thought.
“He said it looked so cold,” she said and then she told me what her waxer (same girl) told her: how she was doing well, how the last girl yelled mother fucker after each tug and that she prayed.
Bitch. That’s what she told me, but I really wasn’t that upset. We were on the beach, not a care in the world since our pubes were gone. “Hopefully our husbands won’t return the favor for our Valentines’ present,” I said.
“Yeah, but a little trim wouldn’t hurt.”
“No kidding–why is it okay for men to have hair sprouting from their asses like a bouquet of ferns?”
“Just the way it goes,” T said.
Anyway, I sacrificed, I endured, and in this economy I got my husband the bare minimum.
**
See also: BAD MOMMY BLOG: Princesses, Part 1
