Posted by: tlnemethy | November 17, 2012

Pink Slip

Pre-Wax rethinking.

Sometimes, women go to extreme lengths to fit into the subset of “norms.” We cut our locks in stylish asymmetrical bobs, eat nothing but celery sticks and peanut butter before a wedding, raise a single pinky to the sky while daintily sipping tea. Who are we kidding? Vacationing is no different, and realistically encompasses most of those wonderful examples simultaneously. We start our preparations for our “relaxation” months in advance. We plan excursions, book flights and hotels, pick swimsuits and fill  3 oz tubes with lotion and shampoo. We get pedicures that match the color of our eyes, find perfect fitting sarongs or wax the tenderest areas of our body.

Let’s just say, I am going to tell a tale of embarrassment and complete misunderstanding. A tale of the dreaded Brazilian bikini wax. I have done this in preparation for my trip to West Palm Beach, the land of oranges, sunshine, and old people who golf. Don’t judge. I did this for you, my wonderful readers, because you deserve a laugh and a ridiculous story of my first time getting destroyed in the name of fashion.

The day before my jaunt to Florida, I ventured into a salon for the aforementioned waxing. The call during which I made my appointment was awkward. “Uh. Yeah, I’d like to know if you have any openings for a Brazilian wax this evening.” “Sure, have you ever used our services before?” “Yeah. I’m familiar.” Click. Wait a second. Did I just tell her I’d had a Brazilian before? Does that matter? God, I think I just lied to her. I’m going to show up unprepared and she’ll just sigh and say, “I asked if she had done it before.” F my life.

I read up about it online before I showed up to the appointment, which really meant I had blatant trust in my peers opinions. Should I show up drugged out? Indeed. Two Ibuprofens down. I was good to go. Not my first time at the rodeo, just the first professionally done. My waxer, waxist, whatever,greeted me at the door and all I noticed was her well-sculpted eyebrows. Looks like she knew her stuff. She handed me the world’s tiniest towel, literally this thing was the size of a postage stamp, and left me alone in the dimly lit, but cozy room to get comfortable really quickly.

I’m laying there with this towel attempting to cover my junk and she knocks and enters the room. I’d made peace with the proceedings and casually avoided her eyes. You know, the whole, if I can’t see you, you don’t exist kind of thing. As soon as I thought to myself, “hey, its  practically dark in the room and I’m completely fine with her going to town as long as she’s practically blind,” she flipped on some huge ass surgical lights and I was blinded by the glare. After I regained my sight, I realized that my head was lined up perfectly with a sprinkler system on the ceiling and I could see my reflection clear as day. Joy.

I knew the expression on my face was going to be priceless, but I tried to keep my cool when she completely removed the postage stamp towel. No warning. I’m not even sure why she had me put it there in the first place. It had survived the five-second rule.

Seriously. Only the slight breeze was the reminder that it had once been there.

She went to town alright, just moving my legs all over the place and it was like I wasn’t even there. Or more like I was a doll in the hands of a maniac with perverse tendencies. Liberating. And you know, it didn’t hurt half as bad as I was expecting. Apparently, all those self-waxing episodes I’d done were just means for me to brutalize myself in the attempt to stave off embarrassment. Seriously. There’s nothing more psychologically disturbing than knowing its gonna hurt to make you stutter step in ripping off those wax strips. Or when the wax breaks and you’re just trying to figure out if you should call it quits and just walk around with a wax strip half-stuck until it falls out naturally.

All thoughts I’ve had, mind you.

Sure, I broke into nervous laughter a few times when any other sane person would be crying or screaming, “Kelly Clarkson,” like Steve Carell in the 40 Year-old Virgin. My  waxer actually stopped a few times to make sure I wasn’t gonna freak out when I started to laugh. But realistically, I was jut picturing how awkward I looked with one leg in the air and the other dangling from the table in a mismatched sock.

And with all the baby powder she was sprinkling about down there I just felt like an infant. The weird shushing sound as she rubbed her hands together was eerily similar to the motion and sounds I make when coating my hands with flour before kneading pizza dough. I tried to explain that to her, but she just gave me a weird look. Apparently people aren’t supposed to chat so much while getting slathered with wax. If only I’d gotten that first-time introduction speech.

Mid-way. Just watching my sprinkler head reflection.

Rip rip.

Oooh. Kelly Clarkson.

With all this baby powder in my pants I might as well be wearing a diaper.



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