I’m trying to veer into more personal topics with my blog posts, and what’s more personal than my privates? Nothing! So get ready. We’re going to get a little weird tonight.
Today I did something I swore that I would never do. As you may have guessed by the somewhat ambiguous title of this post, I voluntarily went and received a Brazilian wax this afternoon. “Why?” you surely ask. Let me Lizsplain.
You should understand that there is no man involved behind-the-scenes of the waxing incident. Not even Channing Tatum on his knees begging me to get a Brazilian would have made me do it, not even if he was naked, not even if he was offering to make hot, hot facelove to my vagina. No. It would take even more than that to let a stranger shmear searing wax onto my labia.
I did it as part of a little gift to myself for getting out of debt, and getting all fit, and also for being very cute and kind of fun. I bought a boudoir photo shoot. Yes. I asked the brilliant Emily Gualdoni to take pictures of me wearing ridiculous/extremely sexy lingerie. I figured, hey. I’m not getting younger. I’m in the best shape of my life and before you know it, I’m going to be 62 and practically dead. I want to look fondly back on my prime, and have proof for my upstart granddaughters that once I was young and hot and buff, as they surely will be.
Thus it was that I arranged the shoot and began to get ready. To prepare for the shoot, I got a pedicure, a french manicure, my first facial (by an esthetician, heh heh), a haircut and color, a teeth whitening, several adorable outfits, and the Brazilian, which I saved for last.
~ We now interrupt your blog post for a brief soapbox ~
I’ve never minded if my partners had a bush. Ya know? Everybody has hair there. Kind of like we grow hair on our heads, but because humans are weird and shameful about private parts, we complicate our pubic hair by insisting it look a certain way or go to great pains to make it disappear altogether. As long as it’s trimmed and free of debris, I actually find well-groomed pubic hair infinitely more attractive than a hairless pussy or ballsack. (Also, is it just me, or is there is something perversely childish about an adult human with no adult hair? I think it’s weird.)
~ the end ~
Once I decided I was ripping the hair off my nethers, I did what any self-respecting woman spoiling herself would do: I visited Groupon. The choices were overwhelming – there are so many waxing parlors, and so many great deals! Seriously! It’s almost like women do this to themselves all the time. Naturally, I chose the cheapest one, and then I made an appointment.
On the big day, I went to the salon and was promptly shown to a room of dubious sanitation and instructed to “get myself set up.” I looked around at the hot tubs of wax, the elevated bed with the doctor’s office-style paper running down its middle, and the itty bitty purple towel that I assumed was somehow supposed to cover me, and I panicked. I lurched desperately at the woman as she walked out of the room.
“Um, ah, hey?” I said, with confidence. “This is gonna sound really stupid, but it’s my first time, and I, actually, ah… what am I supposed to do here?”
To her credit, my waxer (wax-lady? waxess?) was incredibly kind and instructed me in the ways of proper wax positioning. I listened carefully, and then I got onto the table and lay there, uncomfortable, a wash-cloth sized towel over my pubic area. An eery chiming noise sounded every few seconds. I looked at the ceiling and twiddled my thumbs. I appreciated that the salon wasn’t drafty, although it had terrible decor. Then my waxer came back in and got to work.
If I may flatter myself but for a moment, I have always considered my pain threshold to be fairly high. As an adult I’ve never cried from pain, I stick myself with needles for egg donations, I kind of enjoyed getting tattooed, etc.
Getting waxed really, really fucking hurt. And in a shocking, extremely present way. There’s no avoiding it or thinking about something else. You are right there in that moment. It feels like every single pain receptor in your pelvic area explodes with white-hot activity. It feels like a professional slapper just slapped your beaver with his best slap. It feels like all your pubic hairs were individually and simultaneously torn from their roots, their pores unexpectedly and rudely opened, their follicles damaged forever. It feels like death.
You may think I exaggerate, but I assure you I do not. The only thing that kept me from yanking the waxing sticks out of my esthetician’s hand and throwing them at her face was my incorrigible pride. If other women did this, I could do it, dammit. If I wouldn’t let myself yell in pain, I would laugh maniacally. If I couldn’t run from the room, I could white-knuckle grip the table and endure. So I did, and I stayed for the whole damn thing. Even the butt.
After she finished, the esthetician offered witch hazel and sunflower oil as a post-wax reliever, so I used them, and calmly got redressed. Although it was much, much worse than I thought it would be, I lived to tell the tale, and to join the ranks of all the women before me who have tortured themselves thusly in the pursuit of being beautiful. I was able to walk out with my pride intact, weighing just a little less than I did when I walked in. And to finish up photo shoot prep, tomorrow I’m getting my asshole bleached.
Just kidding. And I’m never getting waxed again. Now excuse me, please. In order to get the best value for my money, I’m going to spend the next two weeks appreciating my beautiful, hairless vagina in the mirror.