(For men: If I am or soon will be related to you, do not read this.  If I will never be related to you, do what you want. But we will never, ever acknowledge that you read this.  Ok?  Ok.)


I think finding a good waxer is one of the worst things you can do trial-by-error.  I got a few recommendations, made a few phone calls, and finally found a place here that offers a "Hollywood."  (which i learned after many embarrassing conversations with strangers is what most of us from the states would call a "brazilian.")

Things started off normal.  Table, dropped knickers, wax, inane chit chat about that guy who lost his bonsai trees.

And then.  I can't even write it.  No, I really can't.  Every string of words to describe what happened next comes out completely vulgar.  And I'm not medically smart enough to use terms that would just make it clinical.  So the only thing I can come up with is this:  You know how most waxers pull the skin taut from the outside? She took another approach.  (ladies in england:  this is not normal, is it?!)

I left feeling slightly violated and thinking back to other groomage appointments.  There was the Middle Eastern spa where I should have paid a bit more attention to those HSBC ads you see in the airport terminals, because one woman's "shway" is another's "leave nothing and destroy everything."

And then there was New York.

My first.

In this hole-in-the-wall place that my friend swore was great.  Which I still find unbelievable, since the waxer was the meanest, loudest, scariest Chinese lady you can imagine.  Who didn't really speak English.  And did I mention it was my first time?

My eyes were tearing up.  I kept wincing.  So she paused, put her hands on either side of my thigh, and said, "IKNOWWHYITHURT."

I looked at her, hoping she'd tell me how to make the pain go away.  And when I saw her big toothy grin, I started to relax.

Until she started shaking my thigh.  Vigorously.

And then she said it.

"YOU.      TOO.      JIGGLY."

Wow.

Maybe Hollywood isn't that bad after all.