The more children I’ve had the less time I’ve had to devote to any sort of personal grooming. It falls down on the priority list, as so many other things do, lapsing in to a seldom thought of activity. It’s only when I have to don a swimsuit that I even consider the woolly mammoth south of the border.
To that end, and tired of razor burn I decided it was time to outsource to the professionals.
Now before I proceed let me be clear – I fully support the right of every man and woman to remove as much or as little hair as they want. This is my personal preference, and i can still smash the patriarchy with a hairless Chewbacca.
I would now like to describe my experience waxing the whisker basket through the many and varied facial stylings of acclaimed actor Willem Dafoe.
The night before. Current situation:
So we call and make the appointment. How bad can this be?
2:34pm: Driving to the appointment. The naive optimist.
2:42pm. I meet my pubic hair stylist. To protect her innocence her identity has been withheld but let’s call her Olga because that sounds appropriate for the torture she’s about to unleash on the most tender and sensitive parts of my body.
2:47pm: “So I haven’t had a wax in like 8 or 9 years.”
“Oh so you know what to expect. You’ll do fine honey.”
2:53pm: “So, are we almost done?”
“No honey we’re just getting started.”
I’ve given birth. Several times in fact. And what I’ve learned from that experience is next time I get a wax I’m getting an epidural first.