I Got A Brazilian Wax And I Will Never Be The Same Again

I am getting married in November. Most women are most concerned about their walk down the aisle, their dress, or their reception. I am sitting here worried about making sure I look amazing in a bikini and other forms of undress on my honeymoon. Don’t get me wrong- I’m thinking about all those other parts too- but I’m a Mom, and I am VERY MUCH looking forward to my honeymoon.

Like, a lot. I haven’t had a nap since 2007, okay? I mean business.

I don’t want to spend this coveted time shaving or fussing over body hair when I could spend that time frolicking in a tropical locale with my sexy husband or perhaps sleeping until noon while Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown plays on Netflix in the background. Also, sex.

I could pay for my entire honeymoon with the amount of money it would cost to get laser hair removal, so I decided that waxing was the way to go. Yes, that includes downtown brazil.

Yes. I got a brazilian wax

One night in a fit of curiosity at 2 am, I started some carefully worded googling about Brazilian waxes, and here is what I found:

You start getting the best results after your third or fourth wax, and you should NEVER ( they were very adamant about this part) get your first wax right before a big event.

I vow to get a waxed ASAP on account of I really don’t want to cowboy walk down the aisle and sitting on a plane with a raging rash on my nether regions sounds like the worst kind of hell.

That is, until I read that you’re supposed to let the hair grow out for two weeks before you get it waxed.  UGHHHHHH!

In the morning I made an appointment for two weeks out, tried not to think about it too much, and left my garden untended leading up to my appointment.

This is where there is an upbeat, silly montage of me avoiding my razor and various plants growing symbolically plays.

The day of my appointment comes and I consider not having my morning latte. Then I wonder if I should search YouTube for other women’s experiences. I ultimately decide to risk the latte and skip YouTube. Instead I text my friends.

She is an unfailingly good friend.

I arrive to my appointment with a tummy full of butterflies and wishing I had stopped somewhere for a margarita before I subject myself to this, but there’s no going back now. The ladies at the desk assure me that the first time is the worst, and that it’s really not as bad as I’m thinking it will be. Outside I am smiling and cracking jokes about having a wolf pelt, but on the inside I’m screaming “LIAR!” and “THATS JUST WHAT YOU SAY SO THAT PEOPLE DON’T RUN AWAY AND NEVER COME BACK!”

I’m so onto them.

My esthetician shows me to a little room and instructs me to strip from the waist down and drape a towel over my lap. A hand towel.

Instantly, my chest tightens and I can feel all the blood drain from my face. I spent so much time purposely not dwelling on the fact that I would be having every hair ripped out via wax by a stranger that I am mentally unprepared for what is about to happen.

I check for escape routes. I am hyper aware of how QUIET the whole spa is and that if I squeal everyone will hear it. I frantically text my friends alarming messages and regret not bringing one of them with my to cut the tension a bit. Before I get any responses, there is a gentle knock on the door.

We make unnecessary small talk and before I know it the towel is gone and there is wax be popsicle-sticked on.

“Take a deep breath” she says

“squeak” I say

“riiiip” the wax says, unceremoniously

“uhhfff!” I say, slamming my knees shut.

“Omg I’m so sorry!” I say, giggling (a little hysterically). She laughs and says that everyone does that. I feel a little better for about half a second until she repeats the procedure on the other side and I repeat the venus fly trap routine. There is a fleeting moment where I ponder how insane this must sound from the reception area.

“Okay, can you keep your heels together and bring your knees up like a butterfly?”

Oh. Mother of God.

I try not to look terrified as I lift my knees.

“Take a-”

But I don’t hear the rest because I’m gasping for air like I’ve been underwater for hours. There is a ripping sound. Someone yelps. I guess it was me.

We repeat this several times. I think we’re just about done when she says

“Okay, go ahead and flip over and hold yourself open. Then we’re all done”

My insides tighten up like I’m wearing a corset. Lifetimes pass in my head as I roll over onto my stomach. I am imagining all the things that could possibly go wrong in this scenario. I am regretting the latte I had this morning. I am turning bright red at an alarming rate. I do my best Ace Ventura impression.

I don’t even feel anything that happens after that because I am too mortified with my face pressed down into the paper pillow. I don’t even yelp.

The entire process from start to finish takes less than 10 minutes.

Then she says “Okay, so we don’t usually get all the hair the first time, and we cant go over it a second time or you will rash. We will get it all next time when your skin is used to wax. Don’t shave the leftover spots, don’t exfoliate for 48 hours, and don’t wear lace panties for two days. We’ll see you back in three weeks”

Wait, what?

I just went through all that and it’s not even all gone?!

The second the door closes behind her I am already in an impossible contortion that would make a cirque du soleil acrobat wince, inspecting my business in the mirror.

My bajingo looks like a newborn baby bald eagle. Mostly hairless, but some forlorn looking tufts of two week growth that I will definitely be shaving when I get home.

That night I am standing in the bathroom after my shower, witch cackling at my reflection in the mirror.

“What are you laughing at?

“I went to downtown Brazil today.

“What? Oh..OHHHHH!”

“Yeah. Now I look like I’m wearing bright red underwear…”

“Did they do all of it?”

I proceed to tell him the entire story in vivid detail, relishing his horrified reaction.

“NOPENOPENOPE. Never in a million years!” he proclaims.

I make a mental note to remind him of this next time I don’t want to carry the kitty litter into the house and he insinuates that I am weak.

Once the shock, redness, and the soreness subsided, I found that I actually really do enjoy the results. I’m so used to dealing with stubble the next day that it’s a huge relief to be free of constant grooming. I think I’m going to continue waxing for the next few months; at least until I know whether it really does hurt less each time. Perfect my Ace Ventura pose. Maybe even do a little research into laser.

Have you ever been waxed? Tell me about it in the comments!

HELLO BEAUTIFUL!

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