I was late to the waxing game because I was too afraid of the pain.
Having well-groomed lady parts is my preference, so I’ve tried almost every hair removal procedure out there. I’ve tweezed. I’ve shaved. I’ve even had laser treatments, which freaked me out at first, but I had them done anyway, for several reasons:
1) My boss bought me an eight-session package as a gift.
2) The technician reassured me that she would blow cold air on “my area” during the whole process. “The zap will feel a little spicy,” she said. Liar.
3) Permanent hair removal sounded fabulous.
4) You have to shave as close as possible for the laser to penetrate the follicle, which meant that I was nice and tidy for each appointment.
Unfortunately, eight laser treatments later and the hair wasn’t permanently removed. Not even close. I resumed shaving because I would not spend hundreds more on laser treatments that I didn’t know for sure actually worked. Then, a friend referred me to a waxer; I liked her right off the bat.
“The grow-out stage is awful. This is so embarrassing. I can’t remember the last time I had so much,” I confessed, unbuttoning my pants.
“Oh, it’s too short,” she said. “We’ll need to reschedule.”
“Really? How long does it have to be? This is crazy long,” I said.
“Basically a bush. My re-growth is four weeks and I’m ready to get waxed. Do you want to see mine?” she offered.
“Oh. Okay, sure,” I said, and my waxer showed me her lady lawn. Suddenly I felt much more comfortable with the whole thing. With her private parts not so private either, that made it easier on me.
A couple weeks later, I lay naked on her table, butterflied (on my back with the bottom of my feet together, knees pointed away from my body), and the wax began. It hurt. A lot. Then, I hugged my knees to my chest for the rest of the Brazilian—the back door bit—and resisted the urge to clench.
“You’re doing great. I know it’s uncomfortable having someone’s face up in your business. In fact, it took me two years of waxing other people before I had this done myself,” she said.
“Sure, I was nervous. Which was funny because I had been looking at vaginas all day for two years, and I knew firsthand how little estheticians judge their clients. Still, for my first time, I showered right beforehand and sprayed coconut perfume down there. I was super paranoid it wasn’t nice enough.”
“You sprayed coconut perfume?” I asked.
“A LOT of it. My waxer laughed. She works here now and calls me ‘Tropics.’”
Now my waxer and I are close. I love her. She tells me stories about her other clients, but never gives names. Some of them want odd designs and bedazzled pubic hair. One time she had to cut the end of a tampon string because it got stuck in the wax. I look forward to visiting her every four weeks, and hearing stories from the coconut-scented trenches.
This original piece by Candice Williams was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured image © depositphotos.com/nejron.