I've learned thus far in my 25, nearly 26 years of life that you should take advantage of all opportunities to experience something new unless there is scientific research that shows doing so will only result in negative consequences (i.e. drug use), so even when I heard myself tell Whitney that I just wasn't ready to splay my hoo-ha out for a perfect stranger who hasn't earned a medical degree if it wasn't completely necessary, I knew, with my "seize the day" attitude, that I would eventually find myself laying on a table, naked from the waist down, staring at the ceiling, biting a leather strap saying, why, why, WHY in the FUCK did I feel the need to seize this "opportunity?"
Yes, I'm talking about the taboo art form known as the Brazilian wax, which I once thought was reserved only for strippers, porn stars and that one episode of Sex and the City, but have quickly learned that many, many women, sometimes the most unlikely of candidates, are secretly smuggling the fully waxed vag. Who knew?
What is it about our culture and generation that makes us feel we need to be completely hairless with the exception of our heads? Shit, I know women that shave their arms, men that shave their legs and I've heard horror stories of Nair left on balls too long - feel the burn - too much information I know, but I'm trying to prove a point. Long gone are the days of the '70s afro bush and people will do anything, including baring it all (and I do mean ALL) for a chick wielding a waxy popsicle stick, strips of cloth and tweezers, just to make sure they're "fashionable" in every way possible.
I suddenly and unknowingly joined this club the day I woke up and decided to challenge Whittah's proclamation of "you'll never shave again." My first thought was, 'yes, I'll never shave again because with my luck, the entire thing will be torn off in the process and I will then be vag-less - tragic.' My second thought was, 'I'm just that sick of shaving with the time it takes, the razor bumps, the growing back in 30 seconds anyway (and just retarded enough) to give this thing a try.' And, so, the planning - and the bush growing party - began.
Although I've grown out of the come-with-me-to-the-bathroom-because-I'm-a-chick-and-I-can't-go-by-myself shit, this was going to be an experience far too hilarious and far too horrendously painful not to share with a close friend because, ya know, what are friends for? If anything, I'm going to need someone to drive me to the hospital afterwards to get my vagina sewn back on. Surprisingly the gravelling was minimal because Kate joined the Bush Growing Party as if I had mentioned there was going to be punch and pie or Miller Lite and chocolate ice cream served.
Being the ring leader of this debacle, I heeded Whittah's advice of "do not just go into some nail salon where they don't speak English to get it done," which is what she apparently did the first time and which I would never do anyway because I'm far too neurotic and protective of my ladyparts for such shenanigans, and started researching salons. I wanted the experience of having all the hair ripped violently from my 'gine to be as pleasant as possible, so in other words I didn't want to go to some inexperienced teenager that was all, "Eww! I have to do another one of those?" nor did I want linebacker Helga and her unibrow manhandling my specialness. And, of course, this turned out to not be so easy. First of all, the median price for this "procedure" is about $70. Kate was all, "wait, I have to pay $70 for somebody to hurt me?" And I'm all, "yeah, who knew bald vag was so expensive?" Of course if I was the one staring at strangers hoo-has all day, I'd probably charge way more.
Second of all, it's difficult to find reviews or recommendations for salons/estheticians that do it. It's not like a doctor or a hair stylist that clients constantly talk up. Nobody says, 'Oh yes, I just love my pussy waxer,' so I was a little overwhelmed.
Just as I was about to throw up my hands and say fuck it, Jim of all people said (while we were in the middle of a bar, by the way) he knew somebody that specializes in Brazilians, then whipped out The Pitch and showed me Beth Ann Corbett's "In The Pink" ad.
With not only female, but male Brazilian waxes at the top of the list all while sitting spread eagle in coochie shorts - quite fitting and quite evident that she practices what she preaches, hehe - plus, when I saw the ad right around Christmas, there was a Santa hat superimposed on top of her head. I'm thinking, OK, this just added a whole other level of hilarity to this fiasco. Then, when I called to check prices, she said it only cost $60 to be put through voluntary excruciating pain. SOLD!
So, the appointments were made, the Bush Growing Party continued and the nerves began. Let me tell you, when you're used to living by the motto, "nearly bald is beautiful," it is horrendously difficult to host the required two week long Bush Growing Party. Every time I got in the shower I was like, 'can't handle this; must shave,' then I'd stop myself and try to think of the benefits of waxing rather than the pain. It's like having a hangnail, or a crack in your ceiling or an animal pelt in your pants. I was wringing my hands and pacing non-stop by the time the day of our appointments came not just from the fear of losing body parts, but the anxiety of carrying around the extra weight of a fur coat.
There were three simple steps to our evening-of preparation:
1.) Locate In The Pink
2.) Locate nearby bar
3.) Chug vodka
I've never downed a vodka and Sprite that fast in my life and unfortunately there was only time for one, so I faced the music sorely un-shitfaced - not part of the plan!
After a few minutes of sitting in the Zen-like waiting room listening to lovely "don't worry, we're not going to hurt you" music, Beth Anne came to fetch us and brought us into a nicely decorated office with a "procedure" table set up at one end of the room. We were confused because she brought us in together, since, you know, this isn't like childbirth (thought it may feel like it) where you want to squeeze somebody's hand while screaming through the pain. But, apparently we were mistaken when we assumed we'd be getting any sort of privacy because, lets face it, you can't really claim modesty once you decide you're OK with having a strange lady that is not your gynecologist grope your vag for the sake of beauty and convenience.
The whole modesty-out-the-window thing really set in when she asked who was first, which was me, then patted the table and said, "OK, up here, bare butt!"
Um, heh? Wait...What?
After about 30 seconds of shifting my weight from one foot to the other and wondering, 'am I just supposed to strip now?' She chimed in again in mid conversation, "Bare butt!" She said while patting the table.
I clumsily completed the task I wasn't prepared for, and hopped bare butt onto the table, while Kate sat across the room just out of "procedural view." Before I knew it, the waxing had begun and I hadn't died yet. Miss Corbett kept the candid conversation going - you'd expect nothing less from your Brazilian wax artist, yes? - which involved encouraging us to yell 'fuck' if needed and to bring wine in next time instead of going to a bar for cocktails.
I clenched my teeth while my eyes watered a bit, but surprisingly it wasn't that bad. Just as I was exclaiming to Kate, "it's so not as bad as we thought!" One knee went up and it was like, hey, Beth Anne, here's my VAGINA in case it wasn't all up in your face enough already. Then I felt wax spreading dangerously close to sensitive territory, and I then proclaimed, "OK this one might hurt a little..."
I was correct.
After a few more strategic "FUCK!" squeals, it was all over and time for Kate's turn. Several "FUCK's" from Kate and the pelts in our pants were officially replaced with red, angry, yet smooth, monsters - and I couldn't have been happier...since everything was still attached and all. Here we were, all prepared for a Chinese torture chamber complete with bamboo shoots under the fingernails and we ended up with something comparable to a couple of bad toe stubs. Although having a leather strap to bite onto might have been helpful if just to add a little more color to the story.
To celebrate our new down-there-'dos, we headed straight to the opening day of the Victoria's Secret Semi Annual Sale to spend ridiculous amounts of money on teeny tiny stitches of clothing. As we walked in the door, Kate goes, "this is by far the most vag-tastic day of our entire friendship."
And, although this was spoken by the woman who has changed my drunken ass into my pajamas a handful of times and accompanied me to the Vagina Monologues freshman year where we celebrated all things vagina including naming ours and enjoying the culinary masterpiece which is the cookie decorated to look like a va-jay-jay, I didn't even hesitate a second before agreeing. Like I said, what are friends for?
Apparently Whittah's claim of "you'll never shave again" was right or else I wouldn't have made another appointment to see Beth Anne, which is now less than a week away. And, since I have such a hard time remembering appointments, Beth Anne was kind enough to write the date and time on the back of one of her handy appointment reminder cards:
That's. Fucking. AWESOME.