The Wax Job
So I got my first wax job the other day. And guys, when I tell you I wanted to die, I literally mean I wanted to die.
Small PSA - If you're related to me in literally any way and are one of those guys who don't see me as an actual girl then you might want to stop reading here. Also, if you’re one of those dummy guys who are like, “wait what?,” at the notion of all females everywhere practicing some sort of self care on the regular.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
So by wax job, obviously I mean a bikini wax; brazilian, more specifically. And holy freaking hell was it an experience.
There you are, butterflied for this hopefully well paid woman of about the same age as you, just babbling on about work and asking things like “what other treatments do estheticians normally do?” and telling her how you're moderately terrified of what's about to happen while she ominously stirs a pot of hot dark bubbling wax while nodding along with the conversation in your direction.
You gulp slightly and feel your mouth get dry. But you recover and continue babbling about nothing in particular.
She walks over and you continue your awkward chit chat. This feels like the weirdest first date ever.
More ominous mixing of that damn wax.
Suddenly you feel silky soft latex rub along your skin. This feels weird… but in a bad way?… Then warm drips of wax that honestly feels great and maybe a little too great to be in this position with a woman staring directly into (yes, into) your hooha that you're not intending on getting that kind of physical with.
You settle in and take a few surprisingly calm breaths. It actually feels nice for a second and you even briefly think that this is going to be a fairly pleasant experience.
Then out of nowhere you hear tap tap tap. Your zen is gone and you realize that’s the sound of your lady waxer (waxer lady?) literally tapping on the hardened wax that’s already affixed to what you’re pretty sure is your skin.
At that moment, I’m not going to lie, I was terrified. She fiddles around a bit and goes, “umm, so… take a deep breath real quick" and moments later I damn near saw stars.
The rest is honestly kind of a blur.
I remember discussing makeup routines in high school and how they’ve changed and how eyebrows are now much bushier than the pencil-thin trend of our youth. I remember flashes of some more “deep breath” moments. And I remember that for the first time in my life I literally folded my legs up into my chest to show my actual asshole to another lady. I love my girl friends dearly but this is a whole ‘nother level of close.
The most surprising thing of the whole experience?
After not even five minutes sitting pants-less and butterflied under some very bright lights with all my bits just hanging out I felt incredibly comfortable chatting with my lady waxer.
But the real question, after that seemingly harrowing experience - would I do it again? Am I going to put myself through that unnecessary terrible no good very bad torture again?
FUCK YES.
As I write this, it’s been nearly a week since the aforementioned “waxing” and all I want to do all day long is literally touch myself. Like seriously, all over, everywhere. All the time. It's just so damn smooth!
I never realized that little area of skin that I’ve been harassing with a razor since forever could literally be the softest thing ever. If this silky smooth feeling lasts for days or better, weeks, or better, (almost) months you sign me the fuck up right now.
Of course I'm doing it again. What a silly question.
European Wax Center, be ready for some cash coming your way soon from this girl right here. #NotaPromo #ButMaybeItShouldBe