The Bikini Wax: A Cautionary Tale

(Dad, if you’re reading, please, I beg of you, turn back now . . .)

Warning - TMI to follow.
Seriously.  Don't say I didn't warn you.


Two years ago, my girlfriend A and I decided to get bikini waxes while we were at the beach.  Neither of us had ever had one before, so we scheduled them at a quaint little spa in town.  We took Tylenol beforehand and offered each other words of support.  It really wasn’t that bad.  The aesthetician was respectful of my modesty, the environment was candle-lit and soothing, and while it wasn’t pleasant, it wasn’t tortuous either. It was somewhere between being licked by kittens and childbirth on the pain-o-meter.

Fast forward two years.

I have a toddler at home whom I am constantly removing from the top of the kitchen table.  He is into EVERYthing.  There is not a drawer or cabinet that he has not opened and emptied repeatedly or a piece of furniture on which he has not climbed.  I love watching him discovering his world, but it. is. exhausting.  That being said, I barely have time to shave my legs, and people actually see those.  So suffice it to say it has been a while since I’ve done any "maintenance" in my nether-regions. 

After my pedicure the other night, Lee the Nail Technician asked if I wanted a bikini wax too.  I’m here, I thought; I might as well get it overwith.

A word of advice, if I may: a bikini wax is not something one does on the fly.  It is not a spontaneous, what-the-hell, activity.

We entered Satan's Hair Salon, I laid on the paper, and hiked up my skirt.  (So convenient!) 

“Honey, you want strip or whole thing?”

“Oh, just a strip is fine.”  (This will be important later, because I'm pretty sure I said it out loud, and yet Lee the Nail Tehnician completely disregarded my response.)  I’m starting to blush and get all persweaty because, well, you know how I am.  I am waiting for her to give me those little paper & string panties they give you to preserve your modesty.  I know they don’t cover anything, and SHE knows they don’t cover anything, but still . . .

No paper panties. 

“Honey, take off.  I do this all time.  Peopo come from far way for me to wax.” 

Oh, god.

Okay, I’m naked from the waist down; skirt hiked up and underbritches dangling precariously from one ankle.  It was all kindsa classy.

She tells me to spread ‘em.

Ahem.  She’s talking the entire time, but I just can’t stop thinking about the fact that Lee the Nail Technician’s hands are all over my hooha.

And it hurts like a m*ther-f*cker. 

She tells me a story about a woman whose husband called to thank her for giving his wife a bikini wax.  She tells me a story about a woman whose husband promised to buy her a 5 carat diamond ring if she’d get a bikini wax.  She tells me a story about a woman who drives from Maryland to have Lee the Nail Technician do her bikini wax.

Let me tell you: I have had yearly gynecological exams that have been less invasive than my bikini wax.  And I’m pretty sure Lee the Nail Technician and I might be in a romantic relationship now.  I kept thinking I should have made her at least buy me dinner first, and I had an urge for a post-coital cigarette, and I don’t even smoke. 


And as an added bonus, she was precariously close to my poop-chute.  NO ONE touches the poop-chute.  

Finally, after some watery eyes, some very unladylike language, and a lot of persweating, she was finished.

“Go ‘head, honey.  You look in mirror.”

“Um, no thanks.  I’m just gonna go now.” 

“You go home, you husband say ‘ooh la la!’”

I giggled nervously, gave her a big tip and bolted to the car so that I could call my girlfriend, A.

“Remember when we got those bikini waxes at the beach, and it really wasn’t that bad?” I asked.

. . . looks familiar.

“Yes,” A answered hesitantly.

I whispered, (even though I was completely alone,) “I’m afraid to look, but I’m pretty sure I’m bald.  She spent way too much time down there for me to be anything other than naked as the day I was born.”

Next I texted my girlfriend, Judy.  Judy had a shaving “mishap” a few months ago, the result of which was that she, in her words, "looked like a fat 11-year-old.”  I texted: “Just got ‘the Judy’ bikini wax.  O. M. G.  I think I may have just had my yearly gynecological exam.”

I rushed home and told Hubby about my night, thinking he’d be all excited and “ooh la la,” and that I was going to have to rebuff his many advances on account of the soreness and all.  

His response?  “That’s disgusting.  Why don’t you go take a shower?”

I feel so violated.