As if getting a bikini wax could be even more awkward and uncomfortable…
Waxing season is upon us, and no one feels the weight of the obligation more than I.
I have been waxing my legs and nether region for nearly 20 years. I have stooped occasionally to the uncivilized practice of shaving, but the hair always grows back coarse, which then makes it excruciating to rip out at the root using hot wax and a piece of torn up bedding. Because otherwise it’s totally, totally fine and not painful at all, you guys. Pinkie promise.
With waxing, you have to let the hair grow a little for “best results.” But I always wait a smidgeon too long; then panic sets in. To combat the inertia, I tried home wax strips. But once I realized I couldn’t swivel my torso 360 degrees around like a Barbie doll, and my husband was reduced to waxing my legs himself. Do you know how many blowjobs that cost me?
Procrastination aside, scheduling has also become inconvenient. I used to have a potted-plant (infant) whom I could plop down and face toward the silent, ubiquitous telenovela. These days, my toddler is less amenable, which means I must pay twice: once to the babysitter and again to the “esthetician” tearing my dignity away, strip by strip, atop crumpling piece of exam table paper.
Consequently, I postpone the inevitable until I can feel hair flapping in the wind when I dare run in shorts. Even then, I spend a week trimming unseemly patches and inventing excuses for the poor soul whose job it will be to remove said hair. We all know those ladies compare notes, right?
So when I say I feel the weight of the obligation, I am not exaggerating. Waxing is my least favorite way to lose two pounds. Of hair.
But at the end of my last period, I decided to take pity on my ever-suffering husband and surprise him with a full-leg-and-bikini wax. I hoisted myself onto the table, signaling my unwillingness to chat by gluing my eyes to my phone while she spread hot, honey-colored wax on my inner thigh with a wooden tongue depressor. So far, so good.
Then it happened.
She grabbed the string of my tampon and tugged.
“Ack!” I screamed.
“That’s my tampon!”
She looked terrified and confused. Maybe her English wasn’t that good.
“Tampon,” I continued. “The String From My Tampon.”
“What is tampon?”
Really? Her English didn’t seem that bad.
“You know, I have my period so I put in a tampon.” I made a gesture of sticking something up my vagina. Classy. Her face was blank.
“PERIOD,” I said, raising my voice, because that’s what you do when someone doesn’t speak English well. You say it louder.
Her eyes widened as torrent of comprehension washed over her face. She had never used one, she explained. She thought it was a string from my underwear; she was moving it out of the way. She obviously felt awful. So I spent the rest of the time I was paying her to tear hair off my legs trying not to laugh or cry as I reassured her it was no big deal. The tampon sticking a quarter of the way out was not bothering me. NOPE, NOT AT ALL.
There are two ways to interpret the Great Tampon-Tugging of 2014: divine retribution designed to teach me not to wait so long next time or proof positive that waxing is hell on Earth and I am vindicated in my quest to submit to it as infrequently as possible.
Which explanation do you imagine I latched on to? Hint: It’s time to lose another two pounds.
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