It ain't easy being a woman

They say time heals all wounds and when it comes to a bikini wax, they aren’t kidding.

No sane woman would subject herself to such a procedure more than once unless she’s given enough time to forget about the pain and humiliation of the previous month’s waxing. Somehow, three or four weeks is just long enough for the mental scarring to fade, never mind the physical side effects, so that you can venture back to the spa and undergo what is likely the most humbling of aesthetic augmentations.

With a beach day looming on the horizon and the knowledge that days of shaving just weren’t going to cut it (no pun intended), I gathered my strength and my sense of optimism and headed off the day spa down the street. Somehow I’d managed to banish the memory of a Brazilian bikini wax I got as a lark a couple of years ago, when my ex-best friend talked me into trying it after she’d read one too many copies of Glamour. All I remember is that I paid $75 to have a strange woman up-end me like a baby that needs a diaper change and inflict the worst pain of my life on my private parts. Thankfully, I’ve blocked the pain out. Unfortunately, even though I didn’t opt for the Brazilian option, this time wasn’t much better.

There’s nothing fun about a bikini wax. First, there’s the lack of privacy. You’re spreading your legs for a complete stranger, someone who probably sees upwards of 10 hoohas a day and yet lacks the practiced, clinical approach of an ob/gyn. And it’s not just the leg spreading, it’s the leg adjustment—the technician lifts you and twists your legs around so she can get a nice, clean line and that means you’re doing more contortions than the Kama Sutra but without the pleasant association. In order to get that clean line, the technician also uses her hands to lift, push and spread parts of the anatomy that only myself, my doctor and my boyfriend are allowed to touch. You are On Display and there’s no curling up to conceal yourself on account of the Hot Wax. Which is in places that Hot Wax should not be. Ever. And then it gets ripped off, leaving you gasping in pain and seeing stars in the air.

While I was lying on the table at the spa on Friday, I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell the technician was thinking. How did I compare to the other girls she waxed that day? Was she as grossed out and embarrassed by the whole thing as I was? Did she think cotton Hanes Her Ways were ridiculous for a 30-year old woman?

The things this woman must see.

She kept talking about how much easier it would be next time, and all I could do was think, “I’ll do whatever it takes to make the pain STOP. What makes you think there’s going to be a NEXT TIME???”

Clearly, I cave easily in torture situations.