You probably thought this was going to be about food, didn’t you? Well, it’s not. It’s about the time I got waxed. If you’re faint of heart or shy or my mom, now would be a good time to stop reading and eat a cookie instead.
So. Waxing. (Mom, are you still here? I promise, you don’t want to read this. It’s funny, but I’m your daughter. You don’t wanna know this.)
I’m not really sure why I’m writing about the time I got a Brazilian wax, except I’ve been telling the story of it many times of late, and it’s always amusing to me, both to tell, and to see the supreme embarrassment of others when I tell it. To see their second-hand embarrassment that I’m telling them this story and gesturing and saying words like labia and butthole loudly. Like, really loudly.
I’ve only gotten one wax in my life. It was with a very nice young lady whose name I can’t remember. That bothers me, that she waxed my whole vulva and I can’t remember her name. You’d think it’d be seared onto my brain, but, like the hairs she ripped from my flesh, it is gone.
Let’s call her Michelle. Michelle leads me to this room with a long table, not unlike a doctor’s exam room. I’m instructed to strip from the waist down. Which is odd enough. Even at the doctor gives you a gown or a flimsy piece of parchment paper to cover yourself with. When I recline on the table, I see there are stickers of butterflies on the ceiling, perhaps to distract me from the pain that will ensue. Or to make me associate pain with butterflies and make me hate them forever. I don’t know. I didn’t ask Michelle.
Michelle tells me to bend my knees and let my legs fall open but keep my feet together, as if I am doing a plie, but not standing. Then she gets the wax.
Let’s talk about the wax for a second. They had this kind of wax that hardens almost instantly, meaning you don’t need a fabric strip or anything. Plus, the whole process goes pretty quick. So Michelle gets started painting my vulva with wax. She lets it harden about 10 seconds, then rips it off. Then, SHE PUTS HER HAND BACK ON THE SPOT, to stop it from hurting so much. So, to recap, she has her hands all up in there to put the wax on, rips the wax off (and the hair), and then puts her hand back.
I don’t know what kinds of things you think about whilst getting waxed, but here are my thoughts: Is my vagina weird? Can I ask her if my vagina looks weird? I mean, she would know. She sees a lot of them. Is my labia normal? Are there too many folds? Too few folds? Is it weird if I ask her about the weirdest thing she’s seen? I must not look that weird, my gyno would have told me. But my gyno isn’t looking for weird things on the outside, just on the inside. She’s not concerned about appearance.
Because I am awkward, I’m also talking to Michelle about sundry subjects: the weather, vacations, local news. All to distract us from the fact that she is looking very hard at my vagina. Like, REALLY hard. It’s her job to get every single hair, and believe you me, Michelle is THOROUGH. She is examining. Intently. Do you know how weird it is to have someone examining your vulva while you talk about how hot it is already this year and looking at butterfly stickers? It’s that weird, but times 53. Freal.
So she’s all up in there, and I think she’s done, because there ain’t any more hair on the old vag. Then she tells me to turn over and crouch on all fours on the table.
This is the part where most people would think that I die. If this is a horror movie, things would go horribly awry here, and I would crouch, and she would maim me, and I would start running up the stairs, like all dumb people in horror movies.
That didn’t happen. Instead, this happened. This is the part where I will use A LOT of all caps. You’ll see why shortly.
(Mom, you don’t want to know this part. Really. Go watch Master Chef instead.)
I’m crouching on the table, because so far, Michelle seems trustworthy, and she’s already pored over my vagina, so how bad could this part be, really?
She pulls apart my BUTT CHEEKS and puts WAX in there and RIPS the hairs out of my BUTT HOLE. My ANUS. Cuz Michelle knows her business, and my hairs are her business. She’s eradicating all the hair from my body, and dang it, she’s gonna get it all. It’s her job.
My face is red now. Flaming red. Not because it hurts. I mean, it does hurt, but not that much. I’m red from trying not to laugh. For I am crouching in a room decorated with butterflies while Michelle examines my hairs and I’m thinking of a non-weird way to ask her if my butt hole looks normal.
I am a weird person. I wonder why people talk to me sometimes.
Brilliant idea: a waxing service in the gyno office. It’s perfect – you’re already pretty much naked, getting poked and prodded, someone’s treating your orifices like a grab bag. Why not just get that box waxed at the same time? There’s money to be made there, I tell you.
And that’s the end. Well, the end is where you put your clothes back on and deal with the fact that Michelle is looked at your vagina. And how much money you spent on her doing that. Because guys? You tip Michelle HARD. She just groomed your butthole. She deserves every penny.
(That was a nice story, right? Maybe some writer will put this in a movie, and I’ll be played by Natalie Portman. That would be nice.)