Wax on...

Bikini waxes. No one looks forward to them. Especially when we are talking the full monty. The elusive Brazilian. Baring it all in front of a stranger so that you can be all bare.

My first time was one of the worst things that has ever happened to me. That sounds like hyperbole but trust me... it isn't.

I had been toying with the idea of a Brazilian wax for a while before I built up the courage to schedule an appointment at a salon across the street from my office building. I had never been to this salon before (mistake #1!) but it was convenient, so I made the appointment.

When I arrived for the waxing appointment, I was led to the "waxing room," which was basically a closet in the basement. (red flag! red flag!) I was instructed to lay on the table after undressing. I laid there sans pants and underwear for what felt like an eternity in that dark basement. There wasn't even a door on the small cave in which I was laying. Quite the contrast from the modern and clean upstairs of the salon. I felt duped. But, oh, baby you ain't seen nothing yet.

She began applying the hot wax and used the fabric strips to remove the hair, as I had expected. Things were going well. It was painful, but I could take it. She thought it was going so well, in fact, that as we approached my most sensitive areas she decided to try out a new wax on me that she never used before. (red flag! red flag!) Hard wax. If you are not familiar with this wax, you don't need a cloth strip to remove it. The wax is supposed to harden and can then be pulled off--supposedly much less painfully than the strip method because the hard wax doesn't adhere to the skin. Only to the hair. I only wish that was how it went down...

I'm sure that hard wax is not evil. I'm sure that what I'm about to describe to you is merely the result of an incompetent salon technician. But erring on the side on caution, I will NEVER go near that stuff again.

She applied the hard wax to the most intimate of my bathing suit areas. We waited for it to harden so she could painlessly peel it off. One problem. It wouldn't harden. Was it the humidity of the basement? Did she apply it incorrectly? Who knows. All I know is that she was desperate and began to get creative. She brought down a hair dryer from the main floor of the salon and pointed it at my crotch. Can you feel my dignity begin to slip away, people?

The hair dryer, though a valiant attempt, did not work. At a loss, she began slathering wax remover on me in giant blobs. Still nothin'.

At this point, I'm starting to panic. I'm sweating and shaking, wishing I could just bolt. If things were going so well with the hot wax and strips, why did she need to get all fancy? And this was my first wax. Why was I deemed the perfect guinea pig? Why? Oh, God, why?

The next item in her tool box was regrettably SCISSORS.

I'm going to let that sink in for a minute.

She came after my vagina with scissors.

She began trying to cut the wax off of my delicate skin. I was so terrified that she was going to nip me that I started entertaining visions of me checking myself into the emergency room, explaining how this genital mutilation was inflicted upon me. Wondering how we would stop the bleeding and which diseases I would contract in that horrid basement.

So now I'm not the only one panicking. My tech is beginning to lose her professional demeanor and starting to curse like a sailor. She has no idea what to do next, and I can see it in her eyes. I can hear it in her throaty-smoker's voice. That's when the phone rings. Yes, she brought a cordless phone down to the basement with her. By now, it was after hours at the salon and I'm guessing she was the only still around. SHE ANSWERS THE PHONE. Okay? She answers the phone! While I'm on the table, one snip away from a mental breakdown and she is chatting on the fucking phone!

"Hey, listen.... I can't talk right now. There's an emergency going on over here. Something very bad is happening! I have to go!"

Wow. Thank you for keeping me calm, you horrible, horrible person.

I kind of blacked out at this point, but from what I gather, she used the scissors and wax remover to get off what she could. I emerged black and blue and bleeding--and still relatively waxy. And DEFINITELY not hair-free. Definitely. Not.

Before I was given the green light to dress, she says to me:

"Oh, honey... you have to get that mole checked. I'm worried about that. It doesn't look very good."

I look down to see what she is talking about and see it. A broken blood vessel giving my skin a deep purple cast.

"That WAS NOT here when I got here. I've never seen that before. YOU DID THAT TO ME!"

She said that she had never given anyone a mark like that before and that I must be confused. Ha! Haha! HA!

This whole scenario took an hour and a half. I don't know if you are familiar with how long it takes to get a successful Brazilian wax, but it sure ain't no hour and a half. More like 45 minutes. Maybe even less if you don't kick and scream too much.

By the time I was allowed to emerge from the basement I was so happy to be off the torture table that I forgot to slap the woman when she expected me to pay. Not only pay... but pay MORE than they originally told me that they charged for such a service.

No. Fucking. Way.

I gave her half of what they previously told me it would cost (if I had my wits about me, I wouldn't have given her a cent) and I walked outside, where my significant other was waiting to pick me up. As soon as I got in the car, I broke down crying. He thought the worst--wondering if someone had hurt me or worse--if I had been raped. I was too upset to talk, and I'm sure he was thinking about going to the police until I finally explained the past hour and a half of my life.

He knew better than to try to have sex with me for a long time after that. I mean, I was puffy, bruised, and scabby. And mentally scarred. That's not sexy.

Waxing fail.

Epilogue: I swore I'd never get another Brazilian after that, but years later and with a solid recommendation from a friend, I did it again. And it hurt like hell but after my first experience, it was a freaking picnic. Six weeks later I went back again, and it hurt even less that time. I'm thinking about making it a permanent part of my routine. Oh, and that place that came after my vag with scissors? Totally no longer in business. Can't imagine why...

Make Nice

One of the hardest things for me to do is be fake. If I am happy I will obviously show it, but if I am angry or hurt I have a very difficult time hiding that as well. I guess for some this could be seen as a positive thing, it's good to be honest. But I think for all the talk that people do about being honest and blah blah blah, they really just want you to play happy because it is so much easier for others to deal with you if they do.

There is a quote floating around there that "well behaved women hardly make history"* well then I guess I am going to be one for the books. Even if it is another family member that does something dumb or disrespectful I will speak up about it and say what everyone else is feeling. But then once I do this all the attention is turned to me and I look like the mis-behaving person; the attention from the actual offender is totally taken away. As you can imagine, this is frustrating.

My sibling is dating someone that not one person in the family approves of. This person has cheated, lied and done a number of things to earn their reputation. Everyone talks about this person behind their back and I have been warned many times from my parents not to say a mean word in front of this person. So instead everyone plays nice to them, caters to them, does favors and laughs and smiles with them. I'm sorry but I just can't do that. I won't be overtly mean, but I will in no means be sweet to this person. Just watching my family be fake to them is too much for me to handle.

I wish sometimes I could just rollover and play nice. But then I think that I wouldn't be true to myself if I did, and really, no one is worth that.

*Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

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