Thursday, May 27, 2010

Blame it on Rio

The furor over waxing brazilian seems to have died down a bit. I assumed we'd achieved a certain "been there, done that, it hurt like hell, only on special occasions going forward" status. So when a friend of mine said that she was contemplating her first, I began to wax a bit reminiscent on the topic. Getting a brazilian falls into the things-hard-to-describe category along with birthing a baby and walking on the moon. (I've done the former but have bumped the later down to the very bottom of my bucket list, right under run for president and convert to catholicism.) Not wanting to scare her, I tried to keep my description vague.

First, let me say, if resources allowed, I would be a complete spa junkie. I love everything about them, from the waterfall on the wall behind the reception desk to the ambient asian lounge music, to all of the delicious potions and reading material, I could spend all day on the verge of perpetual slumber in one of their comfy chairs awaiting my turn on the table for just about anything. I love the lather, the slather, the tweaking and the plucking, the scratch of the towels and the kneading by trained hands. Self indulgence at its finest, where do I sign??? Alas, while it has not always been the case, I now live on a very much do-it myself kind of a budget, so I walk by these salons with a jealous heart, just imagining the various tortures I could be undergoing if lucky enough to be inside. I reminisce fondly about my many treatments, like little mini-breaks I've taken to the beach or the mountains, only without the photo memorabilia, fortunately for you.

Suffice it to say that I suspect some MAN dreamed up the brazilian. This not being THAT kind of blog, however, I'm going to just skip ahead a bit.

My jump from regular bikini wax to brazilian happened innocently enough. I was already unarmed, if you will, on the table with my "girl" when she popped the question. I don't know, did I want a full brazilian that day? It wasn't my intention, but in a moment of curious weakness I agreed, not fully anticipating the chasm between the two services.

Metaphorically speaking, the gloves were off, (though, folks, you want your girls to keep their gloves on of course, because they are, at the point of undertaking any south american experiment on your nether region, akin to a fully licensed medical practitioner and, as such, should maintain the highest level of infection control measures) and we dispensed completely with that silly little paper pantikini....I mean really, who are we fooling? That thing just gets in the way, and you don't want to take any chances that it could stick to the wax or to you or stick you to the wax.

Wax is hot. You assume the reason for this is because it needs to be in order to adhere to your little hairs. While this may be true, the real reason is that the initial burn is just a precursor to the searing pain you are about to feel when those waxy hairs are ripped from their follicles and this heat alerts your brain that something far more wicked this way comes.

So my girl is all chatty cathy through this whole thing, which is impressive, because if I had to pour hot wax on women's hoohas all day long I'm not sure how charming I could be. But no, this one was a regular talk show hostess, asking me all about my day and my life and my hopes and dreams. This does help allay my complete feeling of humiliation at the fact that (a) she's doing this in the first place and (b) that I'm PAYING her to hurt me like this.

So, all chatted up, relaxed into what turns out to be a false sense of security, in an angle that not even my gynecologist has seen, this woman begins to slather on large tongue depressors full of hot wax. Ow. Not OWWWW, but there's definitely a sit-up and take-notice component. Prattling on she pulls out strips of fabric, lays them on, makes pointed eye contact with me, asks a particularly thoughtful question about my college experience and then rips the sheet from stem to stern taking not only the handful of hairs, who, heretofore were sound asleep and like toddlers awakened too early have now emerged eyes screwed, fists clenched and mouths screaming, but also what feels like several layers of my epidermis.

I stop breathing.

I think I might be dead.

I wonder how this will be explained to my loved ones, the fact that I died in a pool of hot, fleshy, bloody wax. Hopefully they will refrain from an open casket.

But no, I'm actually alive, and just as I'm regaining consciousness I realize there's another round of wax being applied which means, yes, MORE RIPPING OF MY FLESH. I panic. Can I get out of this? Can I suddenly remember that I am supposed to be in divorce court right now or maybe that I was actually scheduled for surgery today and, oh, so sorry, we'll just have to finish this in another lifetime? Too late, more fabric and more ripping.

I start to laugh. Not because this is in any way at all funny, but because the fork in the road reads laugh now or cry now and I choose the former, because, after all I'm a grown up and dammit, I got myself into this nonsense so I'd better get myself out.

Now, the difference, in case we don't all know, between a bikini wax and a brazilian involves turning the knob up to 13 on the pain amp and leaving it there for many more minutes. A couple of things occur to me as I lie there and concentrate on breathing and not dying. (A) I did not realize hair actually grew there. (B) I am going to look like the inside of a pomegranate when she gets done. (C) Part of the service should include my girl texting my husband to let him know how much I truly love him and to remind him of my ring size.

When, finally, she is done, and I mean, done, nothing left, not even a crumb for a mouse, she says "Oh, you did very well!" Which I bet she says to all the criers, but it does make me feel a little better. I'd appreciate a lollipop right now. Or maybe an ice cream cone. Yes, that would be nice. A giant, cold ice cream cone that I could just spread all over the violated region because that little principality is on fire and really pissed off at me right now and I bet we both could use some icecream.

I finally screw up enough courage to take a peek. This is a mistake. Ladies, don't look. Just let the nice staff people go ahead and wrap it all up in a nice package for you, tie it with a bow and take it on home. Hopefully your man hasn't gotten his hopes up about checking out your new do that evening, because the bow stays on the present for at least another day. Oh, and take the next day off from work, since you won't be able to walk anyway.

No comments:

Post a Comment