Let's talk about waxing

Let’s talk about waxing.

No, not waxing poetic. Not that. The hot wax that rips the hair off of your body.

That waxing.

I should preface this by saying I’m blond. And not particularly, um, hairy. Ok? Got that?

But I do like to trim the bushes, ya know? I do not like rockin’ the pizza slice. And I used to do it by myself. Then one day a new family moved into the neighborhood and the ‘established’ ‘hood mommas invited this new momma over for drinks. New Momma is Irish. Doesn’t everyone just want to sit and listen to that Irish brogue for hours? Well I could. Long story short, on the very evening that we met, I had to share the story of how I had an “incident” shaving down below.

She asked me to expand. Fine – I sliced right up my labia. I did. And it bled like a motherfucker. And then I had to wash off the shaving cream. And I screamed like a banshee. Twice.

As she watched me with that “I’m fucking horrified face,” I thought I was a goner. She’s probably thinking Who are these people and why am I in her basement? But no – she then told us that she’s an esthetician. Has been schooled by Elizabeth Grady. Since having her twins, she doesn’t work there anymore, but does offer services out of her home. And she said she’d help me so that I’d never be slicing and dicing my lady bits, ever again.

Now that’s the definition of a new friend. Sign me up.

Of course, after signing up, you have to wait a while. I had to let it grow. Out. A lot. I had the pizza slice. I hated it. Every time I’d see Irish, I’d say “Will you come check, is it long enough yet?” Yah, she was SO happy she befriended me. She’s wicked cool, though. Didn’t mind checking. Heh.

Finally the day arrived where I was to experience my first ever waxing. We planned to have dinner, too – you know, foreplay before she lured me to the basement to commence the hair ripping.

I was quite impressed with the set up. She has that big chair that you lie down on (the kind like when you get a facial), wax heating, gloves. All professional and stuff. I’m not typically shy by any means, and wasn’t on this night either, but I was a bit afraid of the actual ripping part. The pain of it.

Which is why I had 3 glasses of wine and a Percocet.

Didn’t feel a thing.

She chatted the whole time which also helped the situation. I’m telling ya, that brogue. She could have asked me to watch her kids for 3 weeks and I’d probably have said yes. Instead she just kept asking questions while applying melted wax to my hoo hah. I’d answer and then she’d peel that wax right off all quick like. Then, poof. Gone. Easy peasy.

Anywax, I see her quite often – for non ‘appointment’ type fun stuff. Our kids hang out. We do lunch. We’re very good friends. And when I need a touch up, I just pop in and we get it done.

Well.

This last time, the only way we could mesh our schedules was to have a playdate. Ok, whatever, no problem. 4 children 6 and under? They can keep themselves busy for 15 minutes right?

We go to the basement – and her set up has changed a bit – they’re redoing the room, so the chair is in the unfinished part. You know, like bare walls, stuff hanging around. Dangling lights. Well I’m all unclothed from the waist down, she’s going at it, ripping and I’m all doing the “sssssss” thing thru my teeth and grabbing the side of the chair. We’re almost done, when she noticed a small ingrown hair, and because she’s a professional and all, she couldn’t leave it be. So she was extracting that. It hurt like a sonofabitch, but I know out is better, so I screetched “just get it out!”

my view: [yes, that's my knee]

And then.

My 3 year old walked in.

Just as I’m all tense and laying naked on a chair and Irish is bent over me with gloves on and the room is bare and the dangly lights. He stared at me for a minute, saw some blood, stared at me again and then started screaming. A crying scream. “What is she doing to your Not Penis?**!” “I’m SKERD!” GAWD! I had to tell him that I was ok, that I had a boo boo that Irish was helping me with, that I was not hurt.

Oh lord, do I have enough savings for this child’s therapy? I doubt it. Seriously doubt it.

Especially because he still asks to see my boo boo on my ‘not penis.’



**click that link, it's damn funny