I’ve had this done a million times before. OK, maybe not a million, but when you’ve been getting every single pubic hair forcefully ripped out of your tender vagina since 2008 at least every six weeks, it feels pretty damn close to a million.
I barely have to visit my friendly neighborhood wax spot anymore, since regular waxing means eventually the hair just gives up and stops growing; it’s been murdered at the root. This is awesome and saves me $40 and tip every couple weeks, but it also creates a patchy situation in spots where the stubborn hairs refuse to get the fuck out. Like, quit hanging around, guys. Your moment of glory has long passed and all your friends are dead, so maybe join them?
So I booked this appointment on my weekday off. I’ve parked my car on these streets before, slipped a few quarters in the meter, same old same old. I’m always a half hour early for my six-minute appointment. Yeah, it takes the esthetician about six minutes to rid me of any and all hair. It’s six minutes. It doesn’t even hurt that bad! WHY AM I SO NERVOUS?
I refer to my jitters as “the calm before the Brazilian” because they’re the complete opposite. As I page through a People magazine and watch my fellow females cycle in and out of the waxing stalls in 15-minute increments, my stomach flips somersaults and I jiggle my foot. I shuffle through my bag, fiddling with lipsticks and sunglasses. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? my brain screams. Because, brain, I can’t turn back now till all my hair is gone. Otherwise it’s gonna look as patchy as the face of the dude who can’t grow a beard but tries desperately anyway.
I’m not doing this for a guy, even though the twentysomething dudes I’m sleeping with are groomed and primed by porn to prefer a totally clean look. I do it for me cause I like tiny underwear and minuscule bikini bottoms! It’s just another addition to my girly grooming routine at this point.
I know exactly what is going to happen when I get in that room. I am going to slip out of my jeans, throw my underwear in a heap on top of my shoes, lie down on the paper akin to a doctor’s visit and let my waxer, who has definitely seen my vagina at least twice in the five years I’ve been booking here, get to work. We will make pleasant, impersonal conversation. “Still working downtown? Still living in Northeast?” The chatter is preferable to the chicks who work in silence, leaving me to focus on those quick rip-rip-rips. I’d rather we pitter-patter back and forth about the weather as you paint the warm wax across my skin, thanks. It hurts, but I kinda like the pain and that soreness afterward. It makes me feel like I’ve survived something, a rite of passage.
But seriously, a Brazilian isn’t that bad. If you have a decent pain threshold, it’s not horrific. I would rather have ten Brazilians in a row than have a sore throat. A UTI is definitely worse. It’s just the anticipation, the sensory overload and vulnerability you experience up on that table, naked from the waist down. It’s one thing in the summer, when my legs are tan and my toes painted prettily, but quite another when I’ve been stuffed into leggings and boots all winter, so pale my skin matches the white wax strips. It’s definitely better to leave a Brazilian to the professionals; that time my girlfriend did one for me on our couch was a bad idea.
I always wonder what it’s like for estheticians after work. Do their boyfriends ask how many naked chicks they’ve seen today? I suppose not. That “sexy” job probably gets way less sexy after she’s told him a few horror stories. I hope I’m not a horror story! I’ve never screamed or bled or anything! I don’t have any crazy growths or a rash! I hope my vagina is just a faceless, run-of-the-mill normal vagina.
Oh God, it’s almost time for me to go. I better go pee! Don’t wanna accidentally pee on the table! (I’ve never done that, but I’m sure someone has. Oh god, can you imagine?) Does the receptionist notice I’m totally nervous, or am I hiding it OK? I mean, seriously Kara, this isn’t a new experience so stop freaking out. Oh, look! It’s my favorite waxer and oh joy! She calls my name. OK. The actual calm before the Brazilian starts now. I’m totally zen now. Let’s do this.