I am tired of shaving. I am tired of buying new razors and razor burn and ingrown hairs and being embarrassed at the pool when it’s been a few days (okay, a week and a half) since I’ve shaved.
So I decided to get my first Brazilian. Before you get too proud of me, I did sugaring, not waxing, which I’ve heard is gentler. I also had it done by the lady who has been doing my eyelash extensions all year, so we’re practically besties.
The process starts with removing your pants. So there I am, laying on my back on the table, wearing nothing but my work polo and a grimace. I have a travel pillow wrapped around my neck, and I am gripping it like it’s a shoulder restraint on the Top Thrill Dragster.
She starts talking to distract me, which works pretty well, until she pulls the first strip off and my hips shoot up from the table like a firework on the Fourth of July.
“Okay,” she says. “We learned you’re a jumper.”
“I’m sorry,” I whimper. “Am I the biggest baby you’ve ever done this to?”
She assures me I am not, and then asks me to butterfly my legs and relax.
. . .
Go ahead and try that right now, and see how well you relax. I’ll wait.
Fun, right? Now try butterflying your legs while naked from the waist down while someone removes your hair. But do that on your own time, I’m done waiting.
So the process continues, she compliments my mermaid tattoo, and in the middle of her compliment removes the worst piece and I yelp, my hips jerking spastically.
Then she goes, “Okay! It’s time for the bum!” She says this in the most chipper voice, not the voice of someone asking you to show off your bumble on a Thursday afternoon. (Fun fact: my browser autocorrected bumhole to bumble. Do you think it will catch on?)
I am left with no choice but to pull my legs into my chest and hold them as she continues her sugar attack.
And then I paid her for her time and unflagging optimism.
And I did all this so I can spend the next week on the beach without having to shave. What a time to be alive.