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 it.

"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…sounds 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 nice.

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?"

"Yeah,"

"Well…then…can you get it?"

rip

"You wan' it closa?" she asks.

"Well, is…there…still hair there?"

"Yeah,"

"Well…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, well…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 wax.

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.