“I was lying pantless on a table at the time, and I’d just told the burly, green-haired esthetician—let’s call her Ripper—that I wanted a Bikini wax.
‘A Brazilian?’ she asked.
‘No, a Bikini.’
‘A Brazilian?’ she repeated. ‘Like, do you want me to take off all the hair on your perineum?’
Then, while I was trying to remember A) What my perineum was B) Where my perineum was and C) If Norwegians even grow hair on their perineums, Ripper dipped a tongue depressor in a vat of hot wax, held it over my face and whispered, ‘Remove the towel from your vagina and butterfly your legs for me, Wendi.’
Ripper then took a deep breath and went to town on my bikini area, rhythmically pasting scalding hot wax on my skin and roughly tearing it off, while also being casually conversational like she’d been instructed to be by management. ‘So, how’s your summer going so far?’ RIIIIPPPPP. ‘Seen any good movies?’ RIIIIPPPPPP ‘I can’t believe how hot it is today.’ RIIIIPPPP.
By the time she finished the right leg and stood back to admire her handiwork, I was floating on the ceiling, gazing down at my waxed nether regions and deciding if I should just go into the light already. In my version of Heaven, there are no swimsuits or bikini wax Groupons….Nobody feels sorry for you when you hurt yourself getting a bikini wax.”