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Welcome to the jungle - down there |
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Written by Heather Miller
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Tuesday, 11 April 2006 |
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Blame it on curiosity. Blame it on Rio. Blame it on “Sex and the City.” No matter where the blame lies, my newest addiction is waxing.
Every time I look in the mirror, I see unwanted hair. Waxing is my salvation.
Now, before you get any ideas, you must know that I am not generally hairy. I’m no Yeti. Yet somehow... I think that less hair makes me more attractive. I’m sure it’s a diagnosable disease.
Last summer, after years of suffering from razor burn, ingrown hairs and strays I decided to take the plunge. Ladies lets face it. Nair does nada. Nads? Pul-eaze. The only way to banish those bad boys for a decent amount of time is by waxing. .jpg)
Deep down I’ve always known this, yet I’ve never wanted to admit it. Instead, trying every over-the-counter hair removal on the market. When I finally decided wax was my only option, I decided to do it myself. I bought the kit, followed the instructions to a T and promptly scarred myself for life — physically and emotionally. Not only did I give myself a ginormous, black bruise on my inner thigh I also saw parts of myself that only people with medical degrees have seen.
Waxing, it seems, is best left to the professionals.
So when I proudly walked into my local waxing establishment, I announced my intentions. Quietly.
“I’d like the Brazilian,” I whispered.
The Brazilian, for those of you unaware of the terminology, means they take it all. Including the strays that grow where the sun don’t shine, if you catch my drift.
I was taken back to a delightfully bright room where I was told to disrobe. I was still a little nervous and told the tech — get this —that it’s a jungle down there. She giggled and said she’s seen it all. I told myself to relax. It’s no worse than putting your feet in stirrups at the gyno.
The wax was warm and gooey. Then came the fabric strips. Now, on a scale of 1 to 10, I’d compare the actual ripping off of the cotton strips at about a 489. I ain’t gonna lie. It hurts. A lot.
The good news is that I was no longer nervous. The bad news is that I was now sweating profusely and writhing in pain in front of a perfect stranger. She kept asking me if I was OK before ripping another section of hair out of my body.
But once the whole ordeal was over (total time: around 7 minutes), I felt good. No residual pain.
I told a few people about what I did and word spread. Now, whenever anyone in the office or any of my friends is thinking of “going to Brazil,” they call me with questions. I’ve become the unofficial poster child for unwanted body hair in my circle.
For those of you thinking of waxing down there and are slightly embarrassed, don’t be. Here’s a tip: anyone who spends all day yanking pubes out of delicate areas, isn’t going to be embarrassed. It’s their job.
I’ve gone back a few times for a regular bikini (cleans up the sides) and eyebrow waxing. No, it’s never awkward. Yes, it always hurts.
I haven’t got a Brazilian for about three months. I keep meaning to go but I’m entirely convinced that you have to be in the right frame of mind to do such an act. Or at least drunk. Very, very drunk.
Heather Miller is a writer from Greeley. She is still working up the courage to go back to Brazil. | Only registered users can write comments.
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