The Bikini Wax, Exposed

I’m a waxing kind of girl.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dappled in the other methods of bush maintenance. 

I’ve experienced the never-ending itch of stubble from shaving.  I’ve gone through stealing my husband’s clippers.  I’ve tweezed.  The depilatories have left their mark upon my nether regions.  But when it comes down to the nitty gritty, I’m all for making a phone call to the local Esthetician.

Yesterday, I had my first appointment with a new wax-lady.  Who is, of course, a lady who waxes, not a lady made of wax.  Because why would a Wax Lady require an appointment?

I’ve been through my fair share of wax-ladies over the last eight years, at many different salons.  Some of them have been great, and I was in mourning when they moved/went on permanent maternity leave/generally got tired of looking at beavers all day.  Others have not been so great – like the one who gave me a second degree burn during a brazilian wax and called me a big baby for saying it hurt.

So when I showed up at the new salon, I was a bit nervous.  The wax-lady was nice, but the room was small and instead of a spa table, there was what looked like a barber’s chair.  Which, if you think about the area of my body she was going to be waxing, poses a few questions as to my flexibility and comfort.

In addition, she’d only just graduated from waxing school.  Nervousness turned into full blown anxiety.

It took a little longer than usual, but she did a pretty good job.  Yesterday, my crotchal area was a bit swollen and red, (after all, hair had just been yanked out by the root with hot wax) but today?  I am one happy customer.

All hail the bikini wax:

Slightly expensive?  Yes.
Exposes cootch to stranger?  Yes.
Hurts like hell?  Yes.  But just for a second. 
Involves putting something very hot in a very sensitive area?  Yes.

Feeling extra sexy for my husband:  Totally worth it.