How to Free your Whatnot

Last year, while on the Femme Fantastik Tour, we got to talking about hygiene while we were trapped in the car for hours.  We talked about hair.  We talked about nails and of course, we talked about bikini waxes.  

Brazilian waxes were made famous by Sex in The city.  There was one hilarious scene where Carrie went to get waxed and was surprised when they took it all off.

Now if you have ever shaved to get ready for bikini season, you know what a pain it can be and if you get in-grown hairs, that's just ugly.  

No surprise, I wanted to wax.  The Femmes and I swapped stories about getting the deed done, and they laughed at me when I told mine.

I didn't go to a salon.  I was too shy to expose my who-who in that manner.

"I do it myself."

Their mouths dropped open in disbelief.  "The whole thing?"

"Yup," I told them.  "Brazilian."

"Doesn't that hurt?"

I paused a minute to think about it.  "Not really.  Childbirth was much worse.  Of Course it gets a little uncomfy if you leave even the tiniest bit of wax there.  You know, later, it sticks to your undies."

Then they wanted to know the logistics.

I told them how you put one leg up on the counter,etc etc.  I may not have been the most flexible cheerleader back in college, but every little bit helps as you approach old bird status. After I explained the logistics, they closed their mouths. I was a hairless goddess in their eyes.

Time passed and I didn't think anymore about it until I moved here and I spotted a new shiny salon.  

I decided to try a professional wax to get ready for swimsuit season.

Seems reasonable, right?

It was, for two visits.

I was a little nervous about it, I mean, there ain't that many people that get that up close and personal with my ahem, but the woman I saw put me at ease and made me comfortable.  Before long, we were laughing and yucking up a storm.  She told me about her first male client that wanted a brazilian.  He was a male model and she had to just hold her nose and do what she does.

She about split open from laughter when I told her I did it myself, but she was a professional and knew what to use in what spots to leave me smooth as can be with a minimum of discomfort.

So imagine my surprise when I walked into the salon for a touch up and she wasn't there.

I should have known something was wrong because the other times I went she was always waiting for me.  Today, I had to wait for her, twenty minutes.

And when she emerged from her room, it wasn't her, but another woman that I'd seem working at the salon before.

I was a tad apprehensive, but I said "What the hell, its just a wax, not a haircut."

I didn't even run screaming from the room when she shut the door behind us and then...she turned on the radio.

Odd, since normally the other lady left the room quiet with dimmed lights. (She used a spotlight to see what she needed.)

"Trying to muffle my screams?" I quipped.

She laughed, but I had no idea what was coming.

I lay on the table.

"What did so and so use on you?" she asked. 

Another clue.

I told her.

And we got started.

She spread the wrong kind of wax in the wrong places.  

I was prepared for it to be so warm that it was just on the edge of uncomfortable.

It wasn't.

Hmmm.

I didn't know that cold wax is just as bad as wax that is too hot.

She pulled.

Uh oh.  Instead of a quick rip, she pulled slowly and in threes.

I'd discovered a new form of torture that probably isn't against the Geneva Conventions.

"Um, think you can do that faster?" I asked, wiping back the tears that sprang to my eyes.

She apologized and started in again.

Turned the radio up.

"I'm going to switch waxes."  

I nodded then pressed my eyes closed.  

She spread thick purple stuff everywhere it shouldn't have been.

Practically waxed my what-not shut.

I let her tug a little, screamed and then I sat straight up on the table like Carrie did on Sex in The City.

"I'm so sorry," she said, over and over.  "I don't do this all the time. I hope you come back."

"Like Hell," I said.  "This is an absolutely Nina moment."

I wasn't even mad at her.  I just laughed at myself. I'd had my share of run-ins with wax.  Did I tell you about the one where I removed my eyebrow?

She wanted to finish.  I obviously couldn't leave with one less hole than when I'd come in, but I wasn't letting her near me.  She was not waxer.  She was an expert in inhumane torture.

"How about this? I will do it myself."

I asked for the tools I needed to free my wilhelmina.

"Scissors."

She apologized after each request and meekly handed me what I asked for.

"Baby oil."

"Sorry.  Sorry."

"Tea Tree Oil."

"You know, I think this is gonna be free."

"No shit.  I need a towel. And a mirror."

She turned around while I got more up close and personal with myself than I have been since childbirth and cut my way to freedom.

When I finally emerged from the room,the salon was absolutely quiet. 

No one made eye contact.

They'd heard my screams, the names I'd called her and my curses (which I left out of this blog).

My manicurist slipped me a number under the table.  She told me how to find the wax lady who'd left.

Moral of this story?

Sometimes, a do it yourself job is just A-OK.

I'm reasonably sure I'da never waxed my whatnot shut.