Why I Lie to My Bikini Waxer
Back by popular demand! This is one of those great stories that never gets old ... enjoy!
- Nicole Christie, BettyConfidential.com
I was never much into waxing until I moved to New York. Back in Seattle--land of polar fleece and Birkenstocks--nether-region body hair was only an issue if it was hanging out of your bathing suit. In New York, it's an issue if it exists at all.
And so I got hooked on the Brazilian (or semi-Brazilian - think Chiclet) - courtesy of a petite Russian woman named Natasha. She is quick, impeccable, and at just $30, her waxes are a somewhat well-kept New York secret. I faithfully visit her every four weeks and twist myself into various labor-and-delivery-like positions as she works her defuzzing action - all the while guiding me with Lamaze breathing.
"Deep in...and PUSH!" she barks as I inhale sharply, then exhale with force as she rips the muslin from my skin. This technique effectively distracts me from the pain - as does Natasha's Vulvic Small Talk. At first, this was limited to the weather, my plans for the weekend, and whether I had any vacations lined up. But on the third visit, she ventured into the seriously personal.
"And how is zee monster?" she asked.
I lifted my head and stared down at her, puzzled. "I don't have one."
"No monster?" she said, eyebrows raised. "I thought you had monster."
"No, I don't have kids."
"No, no," she laughed. "Not kids. Monster. Boyfriend."
"Oh," I replied. "I don't have a boyfriend either."
"Oh...no monster. Is too bad," she said, slathering wax onto my groin.
Great, I thought. As if it wasn't bad enough explaining to my family, friends, and everyone else in the entire world that I was single, I now had the woman most familiar with my intimate parts questioning her purpose in my life.
A few days later, I noticed that my usually flawless wax job was red, irritated, and sprouting ingrown hairs. I wondered, Could there be a connection? Could it be that Natasha was a "waxist," a crotch curator who only approached her job with exquisite care if there was someone attending the exhibit?
I decided to test my theory. On my next visit, I remained true to my singlehood - ass held high, declaring my right to a smooth chotch, man or no man. Two days later, it was like a raspberry farm had sprouted between my legs.
Waxism be damned!
At my next appointment, when Natasha asked about my monster, I said he was doing well and why yes, we had a summer vacation planned - to Bermuda, in fact, and of course he was paying. Over time, my responses to her inquiries on what he did for a living varied depending on who I was dating - or wanted to be dating. He was a comedian, a graphic designer, a lawyer. We chatted about where he'd taken me for Valentine's Day, what he bought me for Christmas, and how he was about to come back from a weeklong business trip in Palm Springs (I was jonesing for a really good wax that day).
Read Waxing Lyrical - A Male's View of Hair Down There
These days, as she navigates into my most intimate cracks and crevices, she speaks with pride rather than pity: "Oh, he is going to LOVE me, he is going to LOVE ME."
But then I'm reminded that no one is heading below my equator any time soon and think, "He WHO? Mr. Silicone-and-Batteries in my nightstand drawer? Oh yes, HE is going to LOVE you indeed. Too bad he has a dial instead of a mouth."
But then I remember that HE is 100 percent focused on my pleasure and also asks nothing in return, which allows me to be 100 percent focused on myself in virtually every part of my life. Not many women can say that about their relationships.
So my monster? He's doing just fine.
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