12. I began to hit myself in the head with my fist in an effort to knock myself out
“On the eve of my wedding anniversary, I decided upon the perfect gift to wow my man. I called my local salon and booked an appointment for a Brazilian bikini wax. This was virgin territory for me, and I was a little concerned. I was counseled to take three Advil and drink a half glass of wine. I downed my pain relievers, swigged some wine and added a generous amount of Lidocaine (a topical numbing agent). I got this, I thought. Until I didn’t.
When I arrived for my afternoon tryst, I met Lani, who would soon know more about my vagina than my gynecologist. She was about 20 years old, petite and adorable. Fantastic. Could I not get the 60-year-old that makes me feel good about my Jewel Box? Where is Bertha or Prudence?…
She left the room and I disrobed and lay down on the table with my bits barely covered under the baby-size washcloth I was given. Could I get a hand towel at least? Or how about a beach blanket? WTF am I gonna do with such a freaking small scrap of fabric?
Lani came back in and began to check the wax; stirring and pulling it out of the jar to ensure it was the right elasticity and temperature. Happy with her materials, she started work on my lady love garden.
I am going to work in small sections and move as fast as possible to get this over quickly for you, OK?’…
How bad can this be? I thought. I’ve had some pretty painful moments in life and I survived. This is gonna be fine, she’s just exaggerating. I quickly learned she wasn’t.
Lani positioned my left leg to mimic a flamingo. I was splayed out, my hoo-ha front and center, with hot wax being spooned onto it. Then, the paper went on. She rubbed back and forth to make it adhere, then pulled the paper off.
‘Holy. F*cking. Shi*t!’ I may die. My eyes were tearing.
‘I am really sorry,’ Lani squeaked as she continued to pull the top 10 layers of my skin off.
‘Just get it over with! AAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!’
I began to hit myself in the head with my fist in an effort to knock myself out. This process went back and forth for many painful minutes: Her apologizing, and me trying to not hurt, scream at, or kick her.
I foolishly asked, ‘How much more is left?’ I really didn’t want to look while she was pulling off the strips. I preferred to not have a visual of my beaver with a Mohawk.
Apparently, this normally takes 15 minutes, but since it was my first time (and I’m Italian), I got to enjoy this sh*tastrophe for 30 minutes. Holy Crap! I considered stopping and leaving. It’s the thought that counts, right? He would never get waxed for me, so why am I even doing this? Maybe I should have drank more before I got here. Maybe I should have taken painkillers? Xanax? Beer? Anything!…
Finally, after 45 minutes of excruciating pain during which I prayed for my death, the work is complete. The technician took a hot, wet towel and proceeded to attempt to remove any leftover wax from my now-barren plain. I kindly thanked her for the effort, but preferred to give it the college try myself. She acquiesced and left me and my vagina alone to reconnect. After all, it had been decades since I saw it in this state. However, when I glanced down, I couldn’t help but notice my labia major and minor were bright crimson red. Holy Sh*t! I now had a red delicious apple in my pruned orchard—and I hate red delicious apples. I dressed and left the salon with my head held high and a grimace with each step.
I went home, opened up a beer and proceeded to drink the pain away. Instead of the romantic evening interlude I planned, I had a solo night of drinking, wincing and icing my apple pie. When my husband finally did get a gander at my gift, I learned he prefers well-manicured Bermuda grass instead of a barren wasteland. Good to know. I should have asked before the Great Clearing of Weeds happened.
Next year, I’m just getting him a card.”