Well, once again, it is time to lose five pounds of hair
weight from the area down under to become sleek, smooth, and
clean-feeling by getting the ever-so-popular Brazilian wax.
I've never looked forward to the appointment. I look forward
to it being over, to walking out of the skin care salon feeling
slippery and youthful. That makes the brief, yet excruciating
experience of having your hair ripped from the very sensitive
genitalia by boiling hot wax worth it, if you can believe
"Dere arrre verry rrrung ways of doing da wax,"
Mary once told me, the kind Russian woman of a sophisticated
little salon on Perry St. in Greenwich Village, New York,
who was also the first to take on my regular pubic de-fuzzing.
She explained that "de hairrrs" grow in all different
directions, and it would "be bad" to pull it out
the wrong way. "Be bad"? Is this equivalent
to Dr. Egon Spengler's idea of it "being bad" to
cross the streams? I'm just curious because this is the only
part of my body that qualifies me as a woman and not a man.
So, Mary explains the science of hair removal. I try as hard
as I can to not scream and cry, but there are few words to
describe the fear you experience when you put your vagina
in the hands of a strange Russian woman. (Hmmm
a little unlike I intended it to).
A lot goes into this process, and I wonder how slightly overweight
and inflexible women do in this situation because there is
a lot of participation going on here. You don't just lie there
with your eyes squeezed shut, praying for the experience to
be over. Think about that area, lots of folds and crevices
to get into. How do you think one gets in there? Well, I'll
tell ya, it involves a bit of spreading, a lot of lifting
your legs up and over your head like you're in the goddamn
Cirque de Solei. If you've never been waxed, then you wouldn't
believe the sight of this. And why do we do this to ourselves?
No, it's not because pubic hair is unruly or dirty. I'm sure
there is a societal influence, but it really does feel very
Sadly, New York is a bit far to travel for a wax, so I was
forced to look for a new lady and a new salon in the greater
Boston area. Maybe because of my comfort with Mary, I refuse
to be waxed by anyone who does not have some sort of Eastern
European accent. Stereotyping? Absolutely. I admit it and
I don't care. If you're insulted, well then pout your damn
face off, I trust the people from the countries who know about
skin care more than Americans. I went to one American chick
once in Boston. She had an accent of Southie. Her hair was
frosted, her face was broken out and caked with bad foundation.
Skin care, people. This is where we are. If her face looks
like that, is that what my crotch is going to look like in
two days? Well, she was afraid of the Brazilian. She heats
up the wax while telling me the story of how at beauty school,
no one wanted to practice the Brazilian and no one would volunteer
to be practiced on, she hadn't done it that much. Oh good.
First, you should know that a Brazilian wax removes ALL hair
except for a little strip in front. Ironically, it is called
the Playboy strip even though a Playboy wax removes all hair
with no strip left at all. Anyway, this women would not get
all the hair she was supposed to get. "Is that good?"
"Is there hair there?"
can you get it?"
"You wan' it closa?" she asks.
still hair there?"
then can you get it?"
No success, I'm sad to say. It became too awkward as I tried
to explain that she needed to really reach in there so that
there was NO HAIR, so I reluctantly agreed that it was fine
after the third or fourth attempt to get her to give me a
Brazilian wax, since THAT'S WHAT I WAS PAYING FOR. So, Eastern
Euros it is. If I can pronounce your name easily, then you're
not coming near me with that hot wax.
So, today I wandered into a Skin Care place in Brookline Village,
or "the village" as the woman described it on the
phone. I'm sorry, don't even try to be "the village"
outside of New York. I'll only accept you calling an area
"the village" if you're behind some rolling hill
in Scotland and you're looking to buy milk for your supper
and fabric for your kilt at market in "the village."
Don't use that word outside of New York unless people there
eat porridge and have wooden spoons.
The place seemed nice enough. There was track lightening and
the walls were a warm beige. There were fake plants and flowers
strategically placed and a magazine rack filled neatly with
various Vogues, Glamours, and Cosmopolitans. Classical music
was playing. The young, fresh-faced receptionist welcomed
me and asked for my name. I attempted small talk and said,
"God, it is so relaxing in here." She gave a half-smile,
one of those, I-don't- want-to-talk-at-all, but-I-have-to-smile-because-it's-a-requirement-for-my-job
type of smiles. She looked at me oddly and said, "Your
appointment is for 4:15." I looked at her clock which
read 4:08. No one was in the room but the two of us. "Okay,
I guess I was early
. I'll just sit down then."
Madga, my new waxer, comes into the room. Madga, good name
for waxing. She has a gold tooth, and I don't have any idea
how to take it. I ignore the odd choice by Magda to have said
gold tooth and move into the waxing room - a cold, sterile
room with fluorescent lighting (ridiculously unlike the comforting
and deceiving glow of the waiting room), where I proceed to
take off my pants and underwear. I have to lie down on this
long table with that paper on it, like at the doctors office,
waiting quite uncomfortably half nude (important half revealed)
for her to return and the medieval torture to begin. She enters
holding a pot of brown hot wax. I'm used to green. It's not
plugged into anything, and there is no stand to set it on,
so she places it between my legs, which I have to say, made
me feel a bit uncomfortable. I'm sorry, I mean more
uncomfortable since I'm already in a room that looks more
appropriate for embalming, and my cooter is hanging open for
a gold-toothed freak to rip it apart with her shit-colored
To put it clearly and briefly - it really hurt. She used a
different tactic altogether than the others have. Most lay
down the wax and use this special paper to rub onto the wax,
then rip it off. This woman used this thick wax that would
dry quickly, then the wax itself would serve as the paper,
and she would rip that off instead. Horribly painful the first
time all the hair comes off, but when she goes over it again
to claim the stubborn strays, it doesn't hurt at all. She
just peals and rolls it off, and it doesn't even sting. Problem
with her style is that she doesn't actually have me do the
whole spreading thing, and she doesn't confine the wax to
just placing it on the part where the hair is. She covers
the ENTIRE AREA with wax lines. Meaning, she doesn't put the
wax beside the
"functional pieces", but lies
it right on top. Women, have you ever had burning hot wax
placed directly on your
Pleasure Button? Well, I could
have cried. The woman had to blow on it (from a respectful
distance, thank God) to cool it down because burning my Happy
Flab is NOT fun for a normal, non-masochist. It was over quickly,
but don't for one second think I didn't consider the fact
that she might tear the whole thing off.
So, I left very pleased with the results. Unfortunately, like
most Boston waxers, she left one little section, an area higher
up than they go - above the asshole. A kind waxer named Kler
who was my regular in Boston before she moved to Florida completely
understood this problem. She said, "Most peeepul do not
get dis area, and vat arrre you sooposed to say? 'Wax my asshole,
please?'" True, so true. So, you hope they'll get it,
and if not, it's a shame. Kler wisely pointed out, "If
you have a boyfriend, and he iz down zare - he vill see oll
dat heyair dere!" Socrates, this waxer.
There was one more problem though. I guess Magda the Pirate
didn't know the difference between Brazilian and Playboy because
I now look like a four year old girl in a sandbox. This is
creepy. Now if someone does go there, he'll feel like a pedophile.
I haven't seen this part of me in years. I tried shaving it
all off once, and when I looked in the mirror, I fainted.
Well, not completely, but I only didn't because I went to
lie down. It's not right for a woman to be so bare. It's not.
It'll grow back, and I'll have to very clear about that request
next time. I feel like I should be eating ice cream and watching
Barney will this thing. Ugh.
However, smooth and slippery I am again, armed with my loofa
and Tend Skin to avoid the painful tragedy of regrowth. I'll
be back in a month for this lovely adventure to begin all
over again. I guess I don't know how to explain it, but you'll
have to trust me - it really is worth it.