Noun: the process of removing all or almost all pubic and other hair in the pelvic area by applying hot wax.
Every girl remembers her first time. Mine seems as though it were just yesterday. I was eighteen and my best friend at the time had been doing it for awhile already, so I was obviously curious to try it myself. I remember telling the esthetician that it hurt more than my tattoos. I had two at the time; one on my foot, and one on my lower back. Yes, I (regrettably) have a tramp stamp.
I continued the process for quite a few years after that. The more you do it, the less it hurts. It really wasn’t so bad anymore. Then my beloved esthetician got engaged and moved to Greece. This was a huge issue. It had taken a few trial and errors to find a girl I could count on. Let me assure you that not every waxer with a diploma knows what she’s doing. I had to say goodbye to the first woman after her overly perfectionist attitude caused excessive waxing over the same area to pull off my skin. That was not a good time.
Two years later I bumped into the favourite who had moved to Greece and became so overly excited assuming she was back. She was only visiting. My bubble burst extremely fast.
Ever since then my waxing ritual was never the same. I tried a few different places but was never satisfied. I soon became a social waxer. Going only for special occasions; the last instance was two years ago before a Mexico trip.
This past Thursday I decided to make an appointment for a wax; Friday I went to get the wax. I received a good reference, so I figured it was about time to try again. When I walked into the salon, it was clean and busy (which is always a good sign), I was greeted nicely and told to take a seat. I wasn’t so nervous. My name was soon called and I was led down the corridor to a small room by a young Indian lady. She told me to prepare and she would be back shortly. As I lied on the paper covered bed waiting for her return, I silently prayed for as little pain as possible.
At first it wasn’t as dreadful as I remembered. She complimented my nail polish and made me feel comfortable. She wasn’t exactly gentle, but she wasn’t overly rough either. It seemed to go from mediocre to bad in two point five seconds. She asked if I had shaved prior to this appointment. I told her I hadn’t actually received a wax in quite some time. At this point I wondered if esthetician’s automatically grow feelings of hatred for their clients when they hear this. It’s as if they resent you for making their job more difficult. Hair that has been previously shaven is much more coarse and stubborn to remove.
So it began. Sweat started to form on my upper lip as she ripped the wax fabric strips from my pelvic region. It seemed as though she was now on a mission and there was no ounce of niceness left to be seen. All she saw was the finish line. My body flinched in uncontrollable spasms every time she pulled. I stared at the ceiling wishing for it to be over. I think at one point I was holding my breath for so long it caused her to question if I was OK. Yes, yes I am fine. Please continue with the torture. My vagina was screaming in pain. The air felt like knives. There are only so many times that hot wax can be poured onto and teared off of your labia before it can be considered inhumane. At one point I even considered asking her to stop.
OK it’s done.
She doused my pelvic region with baby powder as if to extinguish the fire. The nice Indian lady reappeared and as she left me to dress, she politely and happily told me it was very nice to meet me. Yes, very nice to meet you too. Thank you for making my vagina cry.
Ten years later I have seven tattoos, one being on my ribs which are apparently a very sensitive area to be inked upon. I am also in the process of removing tattoo number eight (no, unfortunately not the tramp stamp). I still agree that a Brazilian wax is more painful than getting a tattoo. However I can now add that is more painful than getting AND removing a tattoo.
That being said, I made another appointment for three weeks time.