Our anniversary is the next day and I decide upon the perfect gift to wow my man. I call my local salon and book an appointment for a Brazilian Bikini Wax. This is virgin territory for me and I am a little concerned. I was counseled to take 3 Advil and drink a 1/2 glass of wine. I down my pain relievers, swig some wine, and add a generous amount of Lidocaine (a topical numbing agent). I got this, until I don’t.
When I arrive for my afternoon tryst I meet Lani who will soon know more about my vagina than my gynecologist. She is about 20 years old, petite and adorable. Fantastic. Could I not get the 60 year old that makes me feel good about my Jewel Box? Where is Bertha or Prudence?
I follow Lani to the back room entering into nervous first-date chit chat with her. I feel she should know a little bit about me since we will be intimately acquainted in a matter of minutes. Like I am a Libra, I like putting my feet in warm sand, and drinking ice cold beer on the beach. She nods and leads me to the room of torture, where shit is about to get real. She leaves the room, I disrobe and lay on the table with my bits barely covered under the baby size washcloth I am given. Could I get a hand towel at least? Or how about a beach blanket? WTF am I gonna do with a freaking scrap of fabric?
Lani comes back in and begins to check the wax; stirring and pulling it out of the jar to ensure it is the right elasticity and temperature. Happy with her materials she starts at work on my lady love garden.
“I am going to work in small sections and move as fast as possible to get this over quickly for you, ok?”
“Um…ok,” I stammer cause seriously who wants this done slowly?
“There is no way to make this hurt any less, so tell me if you can’t take it or need a break.”
How bad can this be? I’ve had some pretty painful moments in life and I survived. This is gonna be fine, she’s just exaggerating. I quickly learn she isn’t.
Lani positions my left leg to mimic a flamingo. I am splayed out, my hoo-ha front and center with hot wax being spooned on. Then paper goes on, she rubs back and forth to adhere it, and pulls the paper off.
“Holy Fucking Shit!” I may die. My eyes are tearing.
“I am really sorry,” Lani squeaks as she continues to pull the top ten layers of my skin off.
“Just get it over with! AAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
I begin to hit myself in the head with my fist in an effort to knock myself out. This process goes back and forth for many painful minutes her apologizing, me trying to not hurt, scream at, or kick her.
I foolishly ask, “How much more is left?” I really don’t want to look while she is pulling off the strips. I prefer to not have a visual of my beaver with a mo-hawk.
Apparently this normally takes 15 mins, but since it is my first time (and I’m Italian) I can enjoy this Shitastrophy for 30 minutes. Holy fuck! I can’t take much more. I consider stopping and leaving. It’s the thought that counts right? He would never get waxed for me, so why am I even doing this? Maybe I should have drank more before I got here. Maybe I should have taken pain killers? Xanax? Beer? anything!
Lani continues about her business trying to ignore my grimaces and winces, holding down my thighs as I reflexively pull them shut in pain and almost vice-lock her head between them.
My 20 something perky aesthetician then announces she, “needs to get in closer on the labia and it can be sensitive.” (Um WHAT?!)
She pulls over a cosmetic mirror affixed with a very bright light to investigate my wares. She is fucking magnifying the leaves of my garden! She takes out tweezers and begins to individually pluck hairs. Now here is a girl that takes her work seriously. I am all of a sudden very thankful for the extra level of bathing I undertook prior to this appointment.
She applies the wax, gets her paper out and rubs back and forth and then suggests, “I hold my belly taught so it hurts less.” I didn’t think I could get any lower on the humiliation scale but I am wrong.
Here is where I start to let my mind wander. Honestly it needs to leave the here and now. I wonder how Lani would compare my goods. How does my whisker biscuit stack up? Once I leave the salon will the workers be discussing my vagina and all its wonder? This is unnerving to say the least and I am pulled back into the reality with another mind blowingly painful rip of the paper.
Now it is time to switch legs and assume the flamingo stance with my right leg. I am informed that this side should be less painful, “because my heart is on the left” so that is always worse. Well, Lani is FUCKING WRONG! It hurts equally, if not worse. I flash to the moment in the “40 year old virgin” with Steve Carrell when he gets his chest waxed. I can now completely relate.
Lani repeatedly tells me, “I am really sorry this is taking so long, even for a first time, this is way longer than usual.”
Finally after 45 minutes of excruciating pain, that I prayed for my death throughout, she is complete. She takes a hot wet towel and proceeds to attempt to remove any left over wax from my now barren plain. I kindly thank her for the effort but prefer to give it the college try myself. She acquiesces and leaves me and my vagina alone to reconnect. After all it had been decades since I saw it in this state.
However, when I glanced down I couldn’t help but notice my labia major and minor were bright crimson red. Holy Shit I now have a red delicious apple in my pruned orchard! I fucking hate red delicious apples. I dressed and left my salon with my head held high and a grimace with each step.
I went home, opened up a beer and proceeded to drink the pain away. Instead of the romantic evening interlude I planned I had a solo night of drinking, wincing, and icing my apple pie. When my husband finally did get a gander at my gift I learned he prefers a well manicured Bermuda grass, instead of a barren wasteland. Good to know, I shoulda asked before the Great Clearing of Weeds happened.
The next year I got him a card for our anniversary.