An Apology to L, The Brazilian Waxer … Or, Why My Crotch is Cradling a Bag of Frozen Corn

It’s rare that I get a weekday off work, but when I do, I do non-worky things. Like fail at multiple attempts of homemade granola bars. Read Gone With the Wind with the cat curled in my lap. Eat guacamole wearing nothing but a t-shirt and underpants. And indulge in Prison Break marathons. Oh. And shell out $70 to pay a strange woman to slather my body in hot, sticky liquid and rip out every hair from my nether most private region. Which I suppose isn’t that private now since I’m telling you about it.

Men: Now is a good time to navigate to the top left area of your screen and press the back arrow. Or, better yet, stay here. Let me share this educational bedtime story with you.

I’m pretty pale with a few freckles here and there and the occasionally splotchy face because I’m so readily embarrassed. Oh, and my skin is uber-sensitive, so I have banned myself from “real” tanning, and while I shave my legs and underarms every day or two with relative ease, taking a razor to my bikini area is a task I fear from the moment I wake up. But I prefer to be bushless and I loathe, loathe, loathe stubble. So, I do it. But, my boyfriend and I are going on vacation next week and I intend to be in a bikini for 4 days straight. Hence, this inspiration.

So, this morning, I decided to get a spray tan and a Brazilian wax. In that order.

Prior to Yelp-ing local waxing joints as I laid in bed this morning, I came across a plethora of Pinterest posts promising me the “Perfect DIY Brazilian Wax at Home” which they should probably rename “How to Accidentally Eff Up Your Entire Bathroom and Every Towel You Own and Also Likely Accidentally Glue Your Privates Together.” So, because waxing your vagina alone is the worst idea ever, I called 4 salons until I finally found one with a wax opening today English: Advertisement for women's shaving raz...due to a cancellation (every other salon was booked until mid-June. This is not a joke. I guess bushes are a goldmine in this area. And at $60/appointment per half hour, I am now considering a switch in profession.)

So, yeah. I got waxed. And the honest-to-goodness truth? It hurt like hell. Just like L, the aesthetician (waxer), told me it would. But she was fast. Very fast. Thank goodness. I’d had this done once before, about 5 years ago, and vowed to never get waxed again because it was almost an hour of unbearable pain. But L was fantastic. She was done in 12 minutes flat. And she was THOROUGH. I confessed to her beforehand that I was petrified, though I’m sure in her 8 years’ experience in beaver waxing, I was her most difficult client. Even though I was so very knowledgeable from all of my internet research this morning.

Though when it comes to the the Brazilian wax tips and info out there in Internet land, it seems most of it is a dirty, rotten lie: “It may sting a little your first time.” “Pop an Advil an hour before to help numb the pain.” “It gets easier with every wax.” “You hardly notice a think as you and the aesthetician chit-chat.”


Those are lies.

You know what would calm my nerves while you are spreading my legs into unnatural positions and smearing my most sensitive skin in what feels like hot Hershey’s syrup but smells like a potholder you left melting on a forgotten burner? A Long Island Iced Tea. Through an IV. While I lay atop a heating mattress clothed in my Care Bears blankie. As the aroma of lavender verbena candles waft through the room. And Frank Sinatra croons at me from above. And I’m surrounded by tulips and various earthy accents. Instead of tongue depressors and bubbly pots of death wax. And the voices of a woman and her aesthetician in the next room carrying on a loud conversation about a recent cruise, as if patches of her pubic hair being scorched and yanked out is the most pleasant thing in the world.

FINE. So, maybe I’m a baby. And obviously there are plenty, millions even, of women who get this done every 4-6 weeks, as is recommended. And I’m sure it DOES hurt less if you go more often, as your hair is less coarse and ingrown hairs are less likely. But I am not comforted, my friends. I remain in fear. Because as I sit here typing, I wish I could open the freezer with my eyes and encourage the bag of frozen corn to levitate toward me and onto my crotch, where I would cherish and cradle it.

But, I’m actually digging the final results. (Thank you, L.) Poor L. When she told me to make my nervous hands useful and pull the skin on my belly and upper thigh taut each time she spread the wax, I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth and at the first sense of motion, pushed my skin toward her, making her job more difficult as my skin creased. But still, she was pleasant. Less than a foot from my labia and charming as could be.

And ultimately, she turned me into a bronzed goddess with a bald beaver screaming in pain with rectangular shapes of pale white  — where the muslin strips were placed over the wax and pulled — adorning the areas between my hips and thighs, courtesy of my genius Mystic Tan attempt 2 hours prior. Which L totally cracked up about. Good-naturedly. I think.

When she finished my wax, L gave me a cloth with a blue oil on it to rub over the area, and out the door she went. 12 minutes. Of the worst pain of my life. (No, I haven’t gone through childbirth. But for now, I’ll maintain that it’s closing in on a tie, since I didn’t get an epidural with mine.)

$70 and a few final tweezes later, I totally recommend it. All of it. (But, get your faux tan on afterwards.)

But, perhaps I should consider lazer hair removal, so these bouts of pain would result in a lifetime of results as opposed to a month. And I’m now reminded of a radio talk show I was listening to a while back in which a widowed father called in to ask if he should let his 16-year old get a bikini wax with all of her friends before she goes on spring break. He wondered if it was normal and acceptable; he had no idea. And you know what? Either do I. Perhaps another blog post in the making.

And now, off to trade in my piping hot laptop for that bag o’ frozen corn.


An ounce of my morning routine

starbucks mug

(Photo credit: Smithcam)

I would venture so far as to say I frequent Starbucks to start off my workdays more to nurture my observational prowess and less for the overpriced beverages and blueberry KIND bars.

My keenest of observations: Rich people (I am not not one of them) (obviously) get upset when their coffee isn’t perfect and fast.

Stay tuned for more of my Starbucks adventures. I’ve got some already half-written and stocked up to share with you.

Being a klutz is one thing.

But being a klutz during your morning shave is a whole new ballgame.

Here are some painful and/or absurd moments I’ve shared with my razor in the recent past. Please note, I am approaching 30. It’s not like I’m a squirmy 11-year old embarking on this exciting adventure (which, mind you, the act of shaving IS for young women). And when I shave in the morning, I’m not bleary-eyed and half-functioning from a short night’s sleep. I’ve already worked out for an hour, dancing and squatting to Ke$ha and Calvin Harris. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed! Or something like that.

I have:

  • Sliced open my knee crack
  • Shaved 1/2 an inch of skin off my ankle, producing an adorable scar (really, who needs butterfly tattoos when you’ve got a cute little chunk of skin missing?)
  • Used a dull razor on my underarms (because I was too lazy to get out the scissors to open the new bulletproof-plastic razor package), which I assure you, is worse than you’d think. Try wearing a snug tank top after that, fellas
  • Occasionally shaved too quickly, producing tiny knicks, generally around the outside knee area where the skin is thinnest. Ladies, I know you feel me here. The tiny cuts are the worst offenders. If I may quote Cat Stevens (or Sheryl Crow, if you prefer), The First Cut is the Deepest
  • Sliced open my hip upon returning the razor to the shower rack. This happened this morning and prompted this post. I had to wear a loose jersey skirt to work because my pants lay precisely atop my newest battle wound
  • Considered waxing everywhere instead of shaving, but that is for another post I’m writing entitled:

No, Lady, I Really Like Your Nail Salon and The Way You Trim My Cuticles But If You Suggest I Get a Lip Wax One More Time, I Will Never Return

Stairwells and wrong assumptions

Whenever I am in a stairwell and I hear anyone else enter said stairwell, I automatically assume I’m about to be murdered. Unfortunately I also believe in taking the stairs whenever possible to work out the ol’ gluteus maximus. So, as usual, I just ran up 3 flights of stairs like an idiot, in a skirt, at work. Oh, and I’m pretty sure my potential attacker turned out to be the super nice maintenance man. Dang it. But, it could have been tiny Grandma Pearl for all I knew, and I still would have ran like my life depended on it (well, my glutes depended on it, anyhow).

I know I can’t be the only one with this (ir)rational fear. Of course, I blame Law and Order.  My active imagination may also have something to do with it. At least the stairs at work aren’t the kind with openings beneath each step that lead to the abyss below, just waiting for someone to grab your ankles.

Quick. Someone say something not terrifying.

Oh, I know. Here is our cat. Falling asleep. In a pan. Because that’s totally normal. And hygienic.


I’ll make friends. You make babies.

I’ll be 30 in two months, which means for now, I’m 29. No need to double-check my math.

A majority of my vagina-wielding friends now have children, and those that were left all got together and mass-announced their pregnancies with 4D photos of tiny beige faces on Facebook last month. Who knew January was a surefire month for unprotected sex?

I, for one, have not had a baby recently or at any time in my life. (I do, however, have two cats, which I realize is not the same thing at all. But they love to cuddle and they were born knowing how to walk and pose for photos. I share these furry loves with my handsome boyfriend.)

These days, my adulthood friend pool includes my single friends, my busy-as-shit-but-still-the-shit mom friends, some dudes who are always asking about my single or hot married friends, and a few women who are A) defiantly against child-rearing, B) not quite ready for child-rearing but excited for that day, C) scared to death of child-rearing but may give it a try someday when they drink too much pinot or just for the hell of it, and D) me.

But, don’t worry, I’m not writing about cats or babies. I’m unqualified.

For my inaugural post, I want to talk about female friendships at 29. In particular, how to start one. So, tell me. What do you do when a girl (do we still call each other girls at this age?) you barely knew in high school moves back to town 11 years later and asks if you’d like to hang out sometime?

Well, first, you get super excited because it must mean she saw something in you that she liked. On Facebook.

Then, you wonder what the hell you’re going to talk about on your girl date.

So, naturally, you consult the truest source you know. Not your mom or your sister, not your boyfriend, not the female coworker who doubles as a social butterfly. Nope. You’re too ashamed. You go to Google.

Okay, maybe YOU don’t. But I do.

“How to make friends as a female adult,” I type.

“What to talk about on a girl date.”

“Conversation starters for women.”

“What pairs well with pinot noir.”

“Do wild turkeys fly.”

“Do any turkeys fly.”

…And so on and so forth.