One thing scarier than Paris Hilton's performance in the remake of House of Wax is a crotch full of it--wax, that is; not Paris Hilton--which I discovered first hand yesterday in Cambridge.
For years I have heard, read about and watched (remember that Sex and the City episode when the girls go to LA?) the joys and sorrows of waxing various parts of one's body. I even summoned the courage to have my eyebrows done by an esthetician friend of mine two years ago. It hardly counted, given my seven errant hairs. I struggle with certain body image issues, but a unibrow is not one of them. Besides, I pluck like a maniac!
Amazed that I had made it to thirty without having experienced a bikini wax, I thought that the time had come to put on my proverbial big girl panties by taking off the literal ones.
Before making the final decision, I consulted girlfriends who wax, some of whom have blogged about their own Brazilians, and read an array of online literature. Not one to pass judgment merely on hearsay, I insist on personal experience whenever possible to draw conclusions on my own.
Being a Myers-Briggs INFJ personality type, I carefully ponder every option before making well-informed decisions. Menu options can overwhelm me, so imagine the thought that went into ripping out hair on my hooha with hot wax! The entire process seems like a counterintuitive assault on the body.
It is. But, so are corsets, foot binding, Botox, 6-inch stilettos, breast (and any other bodily) implants and a plethora of other lotions, potions, contraptions, processes, practices and self-imposed torture devised in the name of fashion and beauty.
This wouldn't be the first time I subjected myself to pain for such superficial purposes. Besides, my Whiskers-like curiosity, pseudo-masochism and sense of adventure prevailed over reason and feminist sensibility.
The timing of my final decision coincided with bikini season and my 31st birthday. What a handy birthday gift idea! At least I wouldn't have to justify spending $50 of my own money on excruciating body hair removal.
Bikini waxes require hair a minimum one-quarter inch in length, which forced me to spend an itchy three-week phase of growing mine out. With my furious, clandestine scratching, I think that strangers suspected I had crabs.
The night before my appointment, apprehension set in and I nearly shaved it all in one fell swoop. After a 12-second internal gemini chat, the twins made peace and I opted to compromise with a bikini wax; just the outskirts would be affected.
Or not.
Allow me to break down the process.
- I arrived five minutes early for a 10:30am appointment.
- Entered the sterile waxing room looking like a deer in the headlights.
- Met Roberta, my friendly esthetician.
- Stripped everything from the waist down per Roberta's instruction.
- Laid back on the gyno-like massage therapy table covered in wax paper (intentional?).
- Let the fun begin...
"Ok, so that's it?" I asked. "You're fast!"
"No, there is more." she replied. "I'm from Brazil. You're getting a BRAZILIAN."
It was neither a question nor a request.
"Did you take Advil?" she asked.
In jest, I asked my boyfriend if I could pop a couple of his Vicodin before my appointment. Little did I expect to actually need them.
"Uh, no. Do you have any bourbon in the house, though? I could use a shot of...something."
Roberta laughed at my feeble funny as she ripped out round two of the runny, green wax.
"Almost finished," she reassured me.
We chatted about Brazil and Boston, our respective families and travels.
Each time she pulled out the wax, I flinched and once I even squealed. However, I took pride in my tolerance, given my boyfriend's mantra: "honey, you know what a low threshold for pain you have."
Determined to prove him wrong, I felt like William Wallace in Braveheart, covertly spitting out the anesthesia before being disemboweled.
After every strip, Roberta chanted, "almost finished."
"You said that fifteen minutes ago!" I whimpered.
When I could see not a trace of stubble, Roberta paused. I began to sit up, sweating profusely by now.
"Now, turn over."
"Wha-?? There is nothing back there you need to wax. TRUST ME." I assured her.
"Almost finished."
"Yah, yah. Listen, Roberta, I will pay you extra NOT to go there, OK?"
The effort was futile. Roberta covered every nook, cranny and crack.
"You don't have much there," she claimed. "Some women, they have lots of hair. Many don't like this part. They feel nervous."
Hmmm, I can't imagine why.
I surrendered and just pretended that I was visiting my gynecologist...and proctologist.
Expecting another thirty minutes of Brazilian torture, Roberta halted.
"Ok, done."
"NOW I'm done? But I'm finally getting used to this!"
Sort of.
I returned my panties to their proper home, checked to clock to learn that the process took about 45 minutes, and allowed Roberta to escort me to the front desk, where I tipped her generously.
"So, when you want to make next appointment?" she asked with a mischievous smile.
