I suck at being a girl. Of course there’s always a healthy dose of estrogen and progesterone raging through my body, but that makes me female. And female I am. But a girl? Not so much.
Don’t mistake my words; I claim an idea of femininity but it’s not that stereotypical “pink girl”. My femininity lives in the realm of existing as a human being who likes to talk about her periods, newfound digestive problems, and the omnipresent-patriarchal-restriction society makes women perform under.
So definitely a lady. But a lady who leaves the apartment with the same face with which she woke up with. A lady who never needs to have special girl time because she can talk about her periods to both men and women. And definitely a lady who doesn’t have beauty appointments permanently etched into her calendar as if missing one would be the equivalent of reliving the end of the world on repeat.
Like I said, I suck at being a girl.
Which brings me to the real discussion of this post: WAXING.
I got my first wax today…and surprise, I have thoughts.
My position on waxing has always been the following: barbaric. The idea of pulling hair out of your skin for the sake of beauty was absolutely unfathomable. Why wax when shaving works just as well? Sure, waxing is an easier way to maintain smoothness – the results last way longer than shaving and all you have to do is show up, lay on the table, and wait for pain to come. It’s actually pretty simple. Much simpler than almost slipping in the shower every time you try to hoist one leg up against a wet, tiled wall to reach all those glorious nook and crannies of your cracks. But even so, I could never get on board with the idea of “pain is beauty, beauty is pain.”
Fast forward 12 years from when I first started shaving to now, a working lady in NYC who just got put on an account for the next hot thing in waxing – I had to finally bite the bullet and get waxed.
So it’s 9:30 AM and I’m at the waxing salon waiting for my full Brazilian because, ya know, go big or go home. At this point, I realized I was spotting and had instinctually drank a cup of coffee that morning – two things seasoned waxees specifically told me to beware and avoid before waxing. Wupz. But I was already there, so what could I do? I’m definitely not going to not get this done and waste my time. I popped two advil and waited.
My technician walked me through a windy hallway that was disorienting just enough for me to not freak-the-fuck-out over the fact that I was about to experience something I have vehemently opposed and actively went out of my way to avoid for all of my pubescent life.
I got in the room, pulled down my bottoms, and boom… there I was, a bundle of nerves in an unfamiliar place with my lady parts hanging out en plein air. I felt my poor pubes start to shiver in fear.
When she reentered the room, she was carrying a NASA certified time capsule that could also double as a prop in a low-budget sci-fi comedy. Turns out it was just what they prepare the wax in.
She positioned my legs so they were open like a frog and plopped the green goo onto my crotch. I have to admit, the spreading of the warm, thick wax over my intimates felt pretttttty fucking good. My shivering hair follicles relaxed and took delight in the gooey warmth. I dare say, I was even turned on.
Unfortunately, this feeling didn’t last long.
“Take a deep breath,” she said.
::RIP::
My eyes widened. Even-toned I said, “Wow. That hurt.”
And so we continued, laughing together between each rip; my hair follicles in a constant cycle of confusion going from cozy to distressed in a matter of seconds, until I was as bare as a newborn baby.
I’m not sure if I completely get the attraction of waxing. Sure, the pain is manageable because it’s over in an instant, but it still fucking hurts a lot. And no beauty is worth that type of pain. Not to mention the many biological reasons as to why we have body hair – I think we’ve forgotten it actual protects our bodies against harmful irritants that cause illness and plain o’ dirty shit you don’t want in your body. But hey, to each his own.
I can now say I’ve been waxed, which is much more of a feat in NYC when you’re constantly being judged by other women for never having experienced such a common beauty practice. Honestly, how could I be a hot-single-NYC-working lady without being waxed? Thank you Carrie Bradshaw & friends.
Strip by strip, I uncovered the beauty in the bare. And I’ll probably never do it again.
mURmURings of the intERethER 