to wax or not to wax, that is the question (because i'm a big, fat wuss)
June 10, 2003, 4:29 pm

I think I weirded out fiestada today by suggesting we get tandem bikini waxes. I was thinking along the lines of you know, offering moral support; we've both bikini-wax virgins, but I'm afraid it came out less "hold me; I'm nervous, pal!" than "you show me yours, and I'll show you mine". That was not my intention, I swear. I'm embarrassed enough that I've reached "veritable forest" proportions that I don't want one of my best friends to see it.

I've decided that I'm going to go through with the blessed event, fiestada or no, but I'm deathly afraid.

Things that biensoul is afraid of (in no particular order):

1. clogging toilets

2. being forgotten

3. hitting a motorcyclist on the highway (and just motorcyclists in general)

4. snakes (any variety)

5. Gleek of Wonder Twins fame

6. having my pubic hair ripped off with hot wax

Man, "waxing" is such a non-threatening term for what it actually entails. I mean, I've documented my travails with waxing many times before, but that's just my face and the burning goes away after a while. This is an entirely different animal (heh...); I mean, what if the...wait...what do you call the lady that coiffs your naughty area? Coochie Cosmetologist? Snatch Stylist? Yes, I like that...Snatch Stylist...what if the Snatch Stylist makes a mistake or doesn't put enough pressure or...*shudder* This is giving me the hibbity-jibblies, seriously.

And just WHO decided that THIS was a good idea? I mean, despite what people are saying over the water cooler, I'm pretty guarded about who gets to visit cha-cha land; why do I want some uppity-cosmetologist whose JOB it is to POUR HOT WAX ON PEOPLE AND RIP IT OFF WITH A PIECE OF CLOTH working some magic down there?

And what about regrowth? I mean, I get razor burn from moving my Venus so I can clean the tub; while there's no immediate razor burn to endure, there's the regrowth that's bound to be as fun as rubbing sandpaper between my thighs and then using vinegar as a lotion. Itch factor? Please, more than I could imagine right now, but I'm thinking that surreptitiously trying to scratch my suzy while grading papers at my desk is not an acceptable upgrade from the "don't touch the chicken pox or it'll scar" warnings I received in first grade.

But I will go through with it, dammit, because it's necessary. Why does God hate me so much? I mean, it's not so much that I have to have my mom's hips and my dad's family's weight, but man, He had to make me so riddled with hair follicles that I must suffer the pain of hair removal or be thrown into the "EXTREMELY undesirable" category? Gah.

Anyone that has endured the wrath of the bikini wax, please let me know it wasn't as bad as I think it's going to be; bonus if you're a fat-chick so you can help me steer clear of any potential ridiculously pretentious snobby salons.

My sister's latest thing is saying, "Jess, Jesus hates you." I'm intensely amused because it's so not true, but just a little hurt that she would say that.