My Intimate Relationship with Lee the Nail Technician

You know how there are some things that one just doesn’t talk about in casual conversation? 

Me neither.

Let me tell you about my latest bikini wax . . .

If you are a faithful (add-clicking, friend-telling, facebook-stalking) follower of this blog, then you know I am no stranger to the wax misadventure.  In case you missed the first installment, you can read all about it here and here. 

The problem is, the last time I wrote about the 7^th level of Hell where Satan’s minions apply hot wax to your body in the name of fashion/vanity/self-loathing was my most recent waxing. 

Here’s a tip.  Do not wait July, August, September, October, November, December, January, February EIGHT MONTHS between waxes.  I had every intention of keeping up with my waxes, but it takes time and privacy, neither of which I have.  If I have an hour of freedom, I usually go get my toes done because people other than my husband and my gynecologist actually SEE those.  (BTW, my husband is most certainly making snide under-his-breath comments about the cost-effectiveness of getting a bikini wax that he sees about as often as my gynecologist – you know, the annual visit.  Haha.)

"yowwww, Kelly Clarkson!
Gosh, I'm sorry.
I don't usually curse."

Hubby knew that I have been needing a break lately, so he suggested I take off for a little bit and perhaps go get a pedicure.  I backed out of the driveway with the force of a Nascar driver leaving the pole.  (That’s right!  I made a Nascar reference!  Remember?  I’m the lil bit o’ trailer park at the country club?)

I walked into the nail salon and announced that I need “a pedicure and a bikini wax.”  The nail technician replied with “okay honey.  Pick color,” and yelled, “eyebrow wax!” to one of the technicians in the back. 

Because it wasn’t embarrassing enough to say it once, I was forced to repeat my request, “no, no, I need a bikini wax.  There’s a difference.”   I was already blushing because you know how I get about any topic regarding nether-regions.  And do my eyebrows look SO fluffy that she naturally assumed I meant eyebrow wax? 

I was really hoping that Lee the Nail Technician would be performing the duties as she is the Satan’s Minion who did it last time.  I feel really close to her now, even though she didn’t call me afterwards. After our previous intimate experience, you’d think she would have called.  Sigh.

No such luck.  So now there is yet another woman in my little town who has seen more of my hoo-ha than the doctor who delivered my last child.  And now I feel like I should take the morning-after pill, just to be safe.

She was not as talky or as gentle as Lee the Nail Technician.  

The few things she said to me, in between audible sighs of frustration:

1. Oh honey.  You wait too long.  It gonna hurt.
2. Put hand right here.  Hold dis.  (You know what "dis" was?  My gut.  That’s right.  She was asking me to hold my gut so that it was not interfering with her workspace.)
3. You sweating.  “I’m anxious,” I replied.  I know honey.  You hands all sweaty.

When she was finished, an excruciating half hour later, my face was beet red, as were other, um, areas, and I was so hot I asked her for a bottle of water.

Oh honey, you sweating so much you dehydrated.  Hahaha.

Thanks for that.

Please, ladies, let my experience be a lesson.  Maintenance is key, and I’ve decided that it may be worth it to fork out the big bucks to go to a real salon; one not located in a strip mall next to the Dollar Store.