Special thanks to NewsBunny for sharing her pain with us.
The woman was gorgeous. Of course. Platinum hair tied back, eyes as blue as the sky in June, understated makeup, nails a subdued red, reminiscent of the red-tailed hawk’s tail feathers right before it destroys its prey.
Anna’s prey was me.
Anna’s voice was shot with a whisper of Polish, kind of like the scaffolding holding up her English. “It is your first time?” she asked. She wore a long black apron embroidered with the legend: Sit back! And Just Wax!
It is not every day I drop my pants – not to mention my underpants – for strangers. This Irish girl is going Brazilian.
I was not prepared for hair that did not grow out of my scalp. My mother did not have the sex talk with me, her oldest daughter, with the exception of telling me I’d use Stayfree pads and like it because ‘only sluts use tampons.’ My first stick of deodorant was given to me at my birthday party, in front of all the guests, with my mother asking me, “Do you know what that is for?” And laughing uproariously when I put it on my wrist, like perfume. My first bra was a humiliating experience, with my mother forcing me to present it to my father and show it to it to him, and my father, in return, making a slingshot out of it. I did not grow up into someone who opens up easily.
I am 37 and, in the age of bareness, I have never been waxed.
With a fifth wedding anniversary waiting at the next rest stop, and with a husband who had expressed interest, I decided to go for it.
“It will be somewhat painful,” said Anna. I thought about the four Advil and two Ativan I’d taken about a half hour before, in what the spa called it’s Relaxation Room, where I’d stolen a half-dozen granola bars, stuffing them deep into my bag.
The first strip of wax wasn’t so bad, except for the humiliation. The sound of the waxed paper being pulled away from my skin kind of blended in with the nature sounds on the sound system. Perhaps a little warbler was plucking away at me, bit by bit, and building itself a wee nest.
Then began the true humiliation. Anna asked me to ‘brace’ myself, which I first thought meant preparing myself mentally, but actually meant tightening my lower belly by hand for faster waxing. “It will hurt more on the front,” said Anna, and it did. I screamed ‘JESUS FUCK’ as I jumped up, crawling on my back away from Anna, who probably didn’t have to deal with runaway frou-frou-la-las on a regular basis.
“Is…okay?” No, Anna, bless your little dyed blonde heart, is not fucking okay, you evil evil woman.
“It is fine. I’m sorry.” I crawled back into place, accidentally putting my leg into one of her wax-pots, which resulted in poor Anna having to peel wax and orange sticks off my calf.
“How many of these do you see a day?” I asked Anna. She stopped to think, her little wax stick in the air. Eleven, she said. But it’s getting warmer, so she’ll be seeing more. “Do you ever get overwhelmed?” I asked. “I mean, it’s one ladypart after the other for you, isn’t it?”
Sometimes, she says, she gets to do facials. She laid on another of wax and ripped away.
It feels like — well, let me say this. If I had to choose between enduring a migraine for a couple hours and going for another waxing, I’d probably chose the migraine. I’ve enjoyed cigarette burns that hurt less. The pain I felt when I recently tore a tendon in my ankle hurt less. Ripping out those hairs, each hair with its own little nerve ending, is excruciating. At least with a migraine I don’t have to spread myself out like a frog.
Every yank was one yank less, and one yank closer to my scheduled gel manicure.
I begged for a towel to mop up the sweat pouring from my head.
“Design?” asked Anna.
“What, do you have stencils?”
“No. We can do strip, or we can do triangle. You’re already at triangle,” Anna said. She handed me a mirror to help me make up my mind. I began to laugh. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t think anyone’s every given me a hand mirror to examine my labia.”
It’s an interesting sensation. I don’t know if I’m willing endure more hot wax, and the searing pain of a badger chewing at me for such a fuzz-free feeling again.
I don’t miss Anna.
I still have the granola bars.
