Gettin' Ready for Bikini Season.

. . . just kidding.  The last time I wore a bikini was 1976.

After several (yes, that's plural) attempts at keeping up with my personal grooming and then documenting my horror story here and here and here,  let it be known that I had a bikini wax that was not the suburban mommy equivalent of waterboarding.  Seriously, if you haven't read about my hair removal misadventures, you really should.  I'm gonna win a Pulitzer.

I mean, it wasn’t like being licked by kittens, but neither was it torturous.

I decided, after my last two waxes with Lee the Nail Technician in the Seventh Level of Hell, that I would make an appointment at an accredited spa.  As much as I love getting advice on how to “make you husband so happy” from the same woman who paints my toenails, I figured it was time to see a professional.  The last two times I had a bikini wax, my eyes watered more than they did during that scene in Terms of Endearment when Debra Winger says goodbye to her children.

My self-esteem took a hit as soon as I walked into the spa, however.  I filled out the client questionnaire, because apparently it is important for the woman who is going to pluck hair from my body to know exactly how often I partake in recreational drugs and what brand of daily vitamin I take.  The aesthetician introduced herself to me and said, “so we’re doing an eyebrow wax, an upper lip wax, and a bikini wax?’

“Um, no, but why do you ask?”  My hand instinctively covered my upper lip, which apparently rivals Tom Selleck’s mustache, circa Magnum, P.I.

"I'm gonna keep the 'stache."

She got me situated in the room, which was decorated a little more soothingly than the Seventh Level of Hell room at Lee the Nail Technician’s House of Death.  AND she gave me those little paper undies.  Bonus!  She excused herself so that I could undress in private and figure out how to make the elastic on the paper undies fit around my waist without snapping from overextension.  I find it ironic that she waited outside in order to protect my modesty as I undressed, knowing that she'd be gettin' handsy with my nether-regions in a few minutes.

When she came back in she apologized for the mistake and said that there was another client with my same name who was having three waxes.  Well bless her hairy little heart; the poor thing.

We started making small talk, which helped take my mind off the fact that this woman is literally ripping hair from my very sensitive and generally very modest lady parts. 

And then I starts with the jokes.

“So, when you went to beauty school, is THIS what you aspired to?” 

She laughed and replied, “No, but it certainly helps me take out my aggression.”

Well-played, Bikini Waxer.  Joke time’s over.