***Guest post by Lynsey of Sugar Free Ear Candy***
My most innocent girlfriend called me the other day and asked if she should get a Brazilian wax. Before I could begin laughing at the mere thought of her taking her monogrammed panties off in front of a stranger to get her virginal crotch ripped to shreds, sweat started pouring from my body. The time my waxing virginity was ripped away from me has scarred me and sends me into full-body hot flashes to this day.
Many years ago before there were iPhones and hashtags, when I was at (what I hope was) my peak of bad decision-making, I found myself behind a door (read: curtain) with my Charlotte Russe booty shorts in a heap on the floor at the back of a Nail Talk & Tan for my first Brazilian wax. I was just getting comfy on the paper-lined table enjoying the aroma of microwaved Ramen noodles when a tiny lady came in to get to work on my crotch. I’m not sure if she was having a bad day or if my full ’70s bush offended her to the point of anger, but it didn’t go well. I was babbling about God-knows-what when, without warning, she slapped flaming hot wax on my lady bits with a popsicle stick and RRRRIIIIIIPPPP. That one single rip sent me claws-first to the ceiling (picture a cat hanging from the ceiling). SHIT IT HURT. The flaming hot wax was a walk in the park compared to my hairs being ripped out from their roots in my most tender region. I was scared. She was growing angrier (and stronger) with every rip. If my crotch offended her, the sweat cascading out of every pore of my body and me clawing to get away from her certainly wasn’t helping her mood.
“Hold leg,” she commanded as she handed me my ankles and continued ripping hot wax as I sweated, twisted, and pleaded with her, “I’m good, I swear! This was the look I was going for! Did I say Brazilian? I don’t even speak Portuguese! I don’t know what I was saying! Please! Are we done yet?!”
But no. She just kept scraping hot wax over my long, thick virginal hairs and ripping. I made the mistake of looking. There were three clean patches of skin. THREE. We weren’t anywhere close to finished. Using my deductive reasoning skills, I guessed it would take approximately eight trillion gallons of wax at this rate. How long had I been in that curtained room of torture that was now littered with swatches of black hair, blood, and regret?
“Why so hairy? You Italian?,” she interrogated. WHAT? I don’t think so? I mean, I’ve never properly researched my heritage which is something I should probably go do immediately if I make it out alive.
“Turn over.” HUH? “Turn over; I wax your asshole.” And then RIP. (Which surprisingly was the least painful part of the whole torturous process.) We weren’t getting closer. There was still work to be done on the front. Tweezers were involved, and that’s when I said, “You know what? This is exactly what I want!” She said: “No, not finished.” But I literally couldn’t take anymore. I was lying on shreds of sweat-soaked paper liner and thisclose to passing out from dehydration or the pain, and I wasn’t certain this lady would not do anything to revive me. I begged her to be done and promised if I could just leave I would come back the next day and finish. Just please, no more. She agreed out of pure hatred for my face, crotch, and asshole. I hobbled out of there with what looked like two furry caterpillars in my denim shorts.
So, my answer to my most innocent girlfriend was: YES! You should absolutely get one. Everyone should experience a Brazilian wax! And if you can find ol’ girl at Nail Talk & Tan, send her my regards.
For more hilarity from Lynsey, check out Sugar Free Ear Candy. For a professional, pleasant, and much less painful hair removal experience (in Atlanta), get your hoo-ha to Sweet Peach Wax & Sugaring studio in Atlanta (duh). And if you have any funny/traumatic/unbelievable stories about beauty treatments (or dating, drinking, life in general, etc.) feel free to send my way at email@example.com. LYLAS.