The Waxing Post

I knew I would be writing this post one day. And apparently, that day is today.

WARNING:

What you are about to read contains very graphic details about the female anatomy, and the things that are done to it in the name of vanity. If you are squeamish about things like vaginas and pubic hair removal, you're a wuss - but don't say I didn't warn you.

No, we can't just shave. Why? Because

1) You have to do it yourself. And, unless you're a champion contortionist, there are spots that ARE hard to reach. It's easier to have it done for you by someone you're comfortable with. Very, VERY comfortable with.

2) Regrowth is itchy and poky. It's like having a man's stubbly chin in your panties for a week. And although that might work for some girls (and boys), it's really not my thing.

And the chemicals in depilatory creams just burn like a motherfucker. Temporary pain I can handle. A burny, itchy rash that's 10 times worse than a yeast infection and lasts twice as long, I refuse to deal with.

So what do I do? I wax. Correction, I have it waxed off. I'm sure the thought of having your pubic hair ripped from its roots with a ball of cold, sticky goo by another person is completely mind-numbing to most of you, but it's really not that bad.

All you need is a beautician you can trust, balls of steel and no shame whatsoever. Then, you leave your dignity at the door, get naked waist-down and think happy thoughts.

While you're lying there, with your legs spread wide, birthing style, having the fuck waxed out of your nether region, hating life, womanhood, men, personal hygiene, oestrogen, testosterone, puberty, hair, people, ducks, your parents and every man that's ever touched you, thinking that maybe permanent celibacy isn't such a bad thing after all, memorizing every ceiling pattern above you, you will feel pain.

Even though this pain lasts a few seconds after every rip, it is pain beyond anything the human brain can ever comprehend. It is impossible to try and describe the magnitude of this pain and fall miserably short in accuracy. And if your beautician *REALLY* wants to fuck with your head, she'll make you hold yourself open so she can get to the delicate insides. And you don't argue with the person standing over you on a waxing table. No, never.

And just when you think it's over, just when you've managed to drag yourself back from the brink of unconsciousness, just when you lift your head up off the table, look down at yourself and to your boundless joy can see not a single hair left and your wa-wa looking red and hairless like a newborn puppy, she'll say with a gleam in her eye and a low, ominous voice "Turn."


I would like it to be known that even though I cannot sit right for at least 24 hours after I put myself through the above, I wouldn't have it any other way. There's nothing that feels quite as sensual as a silky smooth, hairless foofie and once you get used to the pain, it is actually quite enjoyable.