I have never made a secret of the fact that I hate dating. I don’t take any joy in the dressing up, the flirting, the awkward first date conversation. The thought of having to dip my toe back into the dating pool is less appealing than getting a rectal exam from Edward Scissorhands.
Just as many women are, I am riddled with insecurities. My thighs are too wide, my nose is too big, and I am sure that my breasts and waistline are slowly trying to become one entity. I look at men’s magazines and see what men want. I’m just not the kind of girl who looks good frolicking in a string bikini at sunset.
One of the things I hate most about dating is the “maintenance” associated with it. We’ve got to keep our skin clear, our hair nicely coiffed, and mostly importantly, our body hair to a minimum. As someone whose mustache could grow to impede my ability to breathe through my nostrils, this is no easy feat.
The most torturous of our follicle upkeep is the bikini wax. I have a pretty high threshold, but even I cannot help but wince at the idea of hot wax being ripped from my chicken mcnugget.
At one point in my life I was much more of a masochist, and kept my Virginia Woolf in check with the use of a waxer. The girl I went to at the time was amazing, but as with all great beauticians, they eventually become overbooked. I consulted the internet, and found a woman who had a slick website, and great rates.
There are some things you should never buy discounted: toilet paper, pregnancy tests, Meth, and bikini waxes. When I showed up for the appointment, I immediately knew something was off.
I walked in, and the receptionist immediately started throwing me shade.
“Who are you? We don’t take walk-in persons!”
“Uh, I’m an appointment person.”
“Tell me who you are.”
“My name is Jennifer, my birthday is November 26th, and I’m a Golden Girls addict.”
She instructed me to “sit down and wait patiently” so I did. The woman who doing the waxing eventually came out, and led me to a tiny room. She gave me a pair of paper panties, and told me she would be back to do the wax. A short while later, the pube stealer busted through the door.
“Lay down and spread your legs.”
I must note that there have only been two times in my life when someone has spoken to me this way. The first being at a gynecological appointment, and the second was the time I went on a date with Charlie Sheen.
She crouched down and began inspecting the under construction site. She gave a heavy sigh, and then began slathering extremely hot wax all over the place. Had I never had this done before, I might have thought the extreme discomfort was normal, but I knew differently.
“The wax is a little hot. Can you wipe it off?”
She craned her neck up and said, “Is there a problem?”
“Not that I’m against having third-degree burns on my vag, but it’s just not the look I’m going for today.”
She completely ignored me, and began violently ripping away the pieces of cloth. This woman must have been some kind of sadist because the more I flinched, the harder she tore.
“Hey! I don’t know if you got the memo, but that vagina kind of belongs to me. I’d like to take some of it home today.”
“I’m just trying to help you. You’re hairy.”
Now she had pissed me off. It’s one thing to destroy my anatomy, but it’s another to imply I had Don King in a headlock.
“Okay, we’re done here. For the record, I’m not that hairy. I once saw a woman in the park whose pubes were peaking out from her running shorts. It looked like she was smuggling a Chia pet in her pants. Also, you suck at this.”
She turned to me and coolly said, “Good luck getting that wax off on your own.”
I had had enough. I turned around, and was ready to bolt…except I couldn’t move because the wax had hardened. I had to resort to waddling out of there like a penguin who had been riding a Clydesdale all afternoon. Trust me, there was tons of attitude in that waddle.
Once I got home I had to use a mixture of blow drying, tugging and divine intervention to get the remaining wax off. A CSI team couldn’t have solved the crime scene between my thighs. I eventually used a blow dryer to melt the wax off, and prayed the entire time that nobody would walk in and ask me what the hell I was doing.
I haven’t gone back to a waxer since, and have concluded that bikini waxes are for pod people who feel nothing. While it was painful at the time, it helped me learn two very valuable lessons. The first being that you should always get a personal recommendation for something like that. The second, and much more practical lesson, is that gyrating in the sand while wearing a tiny bikini isn’t so bad after all.