My lady bits eerily resembled a cantaloupe with a Hitler mustache. It was definitely not what I was envisioning when I made the appointment at a local spa to have a full Brazilian bikini wax done.
I was young and newly married. Our oldest daughter was but three or four years old. Our relationship had taken a backseat to my complete and total addiction to my daughter. I felt like an amazing mother, but not a sexual being. I laugh now, because I was no older than twenty-five back then. They aren’t lying when they say youth is wasted on the young. I don’t know who “they” are, but they’re right.
So, I was feeling unattractive with my flat stomach and beautiful skin. I can tell you that 40-year-old me really hates that bitch. Anyway, I made an appointment to go get a Brazilian wax. I thought maybe if I was as smooth as a glass ball, I would stimulate some activity in the bedroom or some desire anyway.
I made an appointment with a local salon that was locally renowned for its excellence which was also reflected in the prices.
I showed up for my appointment appropriately dressed, groomed, and medicated as per my phone instructions. Please note what I’m saying here. I did what I was supposed to do.
My waxing specialist exited. She looked to be no more than 16, but said she was 19. That did not inspire me with confidence in her experience level. But being raised with manners in the south, I overlooked the lack of experience and decided to have faith in her abilities. The first lesson I learned was to always listen to that little warning bell in my head.
In my birthday suit basically, I was maneuvered into the most awkward positions available to the imagination. All the while trying to maintain small talk while someone ripped the hair off of my privates. With wax that was not hot enough. I mentioned a few times that the wax did not seem to be warm, but she seemed to be unconcerned.
When I tell you that I was in agony, I am not exaggerating. This little sadistic heifer used cold wax on my taint. I would’ve stood most of it, but when she got to the little man in the boat, aka my clitoris, I jumped up off the table like my life was at stake.
Still clinging to my manners, I said, “You’ve done a great job, but I think I’m good now. We will just leave that there.”
I high tailed it out of there and went home to sit on a bag of ice. Three days later, my vagina still looked like a cantaloupe with a Hitler mustache. I never had this procedure done again. I was very proud of myself for not yelling out Kelly Clarkson’s name during the painful parts.
Moral of the story is, don’t do a Brazilian. Or if you do, just do it yourself. With a hedge trimmer. Or a flamethrower.