I never intended to go to South America. I watch XUXA [shoo-sha, -- ed], and that Simpsons episode that caused such trouble. I even laughed! But do I want to meet any of those people? Even her? No! Do I plan to lay on the beaches of Rio? No. Do I want to see my husband in a speedo? Everyone with me... NO!
Which is all well and good. But then there is the lunch hour. Well, after you eat your (stinking, annoying, nowhere near enough, why-do-I-have-to-pay-attention-to-points-oh-yeah-that-swimsuit 5 point) lunch maybe 30 minutes. Quick now, this is a pop quiz...
What happens when you go into your regular salon for a quick bikini wax and your regular esthetictian* is out sick?
Today was a slow day at work. Like, "how many different ways can I talk my favorite assistant, Griffy, into stuffing himself into the dryer?" sort of day (short answer: 3). So, after the owner of the place showed up and got the vapors about OSHA violations and liability suits, I decided it was time for lunch. And, while I was at it, getting a bikini wax done.
Hey, it's called multi-tasking! What I did not expect was my normal salon girl to be absent. Instead, another young lady all the salon girls raved about was there. Hey a waxer is a waxer, right? (For once, when the men in the audience all chime up they're right when they shout) WRONG!
I asked for a routine bikini wax. What I got was something much... well... more...
Ok, thing is, it's so important to communicate with your waxer. Communication is the key. A key so important that it can literally mean life and death to the look of your kitty. And not the one that goes "meow."
I asked for a routine wax, which for me includes a nice area around which one can wear panties or a bathing suit around without embarrassing oneself at the pool or a dressing room. You know, the kind of wax that stops that "spiders crawling out of your panties" look.
The room is a pale shade of lavender. Ok, for you neandertal guys, think purple, but with white stuff mixed in.
New Age music is being piped in the surround sound speakers. Incense fills the air, and there is a small rock fountain babbling in the corner. This is the waxing room. This is the room in which you bear all of your shame, in the name of vanity.
The waxer spools out clean hospital paper across the table in front of you, lights some candles, even more incense, and instructs you to take everything off from the waist down.
To add to the ambiance of this humiliating procedure, you get a lavender scented eye pillow to cover your eyes and relax with while being tortured. I'm convinced that the pillow is there to shield your eyes from seeing the skin ripped off your body. You also get a towel across your chest to clutch (and scream into, if needed.)
Torquema--- rrrm, the esti, esta, estee... oh hell, the lady with the wax: "Hhhmmm...when was last time you wax?"
"Well... about 7 weeks ago, just like the last time." Then I suddenly remember she's not my regular girl. My regular girl is out of the country visiting family for the holidays. This is where I should've run out of the room. But no, laying there half-naked with my music, incense, and babbling brook, I wanted my bikini line done, dammit!
I heard a very professional "OK."
Holy shit! HOLY Shit!! Holyshitholyshitholyshit! HOLY SHIITIT!!!!
Times that by 20.
Next thing I remember, she's putting some cooling gel on and helping me up from the table.
"Your husband going to looooove this!" she cooed at me. "Men love this! My husband love it! You love it too! So nice! So clean!"
She reminded me of a commercial.
"Exercise even better! Much cleaner! Nice and soft!"
How about how it feels right now? How about how it looks?!? I have a baboon's ass on my crotch!
She hands me her card. "You see me in 6 week!!!" with a big smile on her face.
"You do these a lot don't you?"
"Oh yes! 90% clients want full bikini wax. You like it too! I promise!"
"What about men, do you get men?"
Her eyes immediately brightened up. "OH YES! Many many men! Everyone love it. Love it!"
Ok, everyone loves it. I get it.
I'm not so sure about me yet.
* Editor: "Ok, if the person who cuts your hair is your stylist, what is someone who does... well... that?"
The Gramma: "A sadist?"
Ellen: "An estha- esti- esthetician?"
The Gramma: "Sounds pretty sadistic to me."
Editor: "I'll take your word for it. Time for google."