July 03, 2003, 9:50 am
All right, the waxing.
I don't remember how it came to be, maybe we were drunk on Arbor Mist in the midst of a Rummikub showdown or maybe it was just over email, but fiestada and I decided to get waxed at the same time (well, not in the room together, but we'd accompany each other to the salon to offer moral support). I've shared my views on waxing quite a few times before, but they've always referenced another part of my body all together. This time, this waxing, would be in a special area that the bathing suit covers.
I cannot even begin to tell you how nervous I was. Despite popular opinion, I'm very selective on what goes near my special area, and I'm very conscientious about the type of services that it receives. Having a Snatch Stylist that I hardly know rip out some unbelievably unsightly yet-there-for-a-reason hair is NOT my ideal reason for wearing nice underwear, yet if fiestada was up for the challenge, I'd be, too.
I looked on the internet to find a good place that was low on the pretentious asshole quotient and high on the nice scale; I found this place in Annapolis. I was a little wary because I was thinking, "Ooh, a day spa in Annapolis? High on the swank factor, low on the niceness." Then I saw "Teachers get 20% off!" Ding!
After drinking all night Thursday at fiestada's, I woke up on Friday hungover as hell, took Autymander home, and crashed in my bed. Our appointment was at 1:30pm. I woke up at 1:15pm. SHIT. Fiestada was running late also, so we changed our appointment time to later on in the afternoon.
I wasn't quite sure about the proper underwear etiquette for a bikini wax. I mean, obviously one doesn't want to wear skanky drawers, but none too sexy or frilly because of the task at hand. I chose a delightful set of fruit-themed undergarments that would seem cute but not too silly.
I arrived at the salon before fiestada; the rain was RIDICULOUS. The place was not at all what I expected; the walls were bright blues and greens; huge palm trees sat in the corners, and the woman working the counter was...*gasp* NORMAL LOOKING. Not all primped out or in a stupid lab coat or anything you see in salons that instantly intimidates you. She was beautiful but NORMAL. She greeted me with a smile, took my name, and started chatting me up like we were old buddies. I felt at ease until she said (very loudly across the room), "Nicole! Jessica is here for her bikini wax!"
Okay, fine. It's one thing to be in a room with a stranger showing off your goods for improvement; it's an entire other thing that a room full of strangers knows that you're about to have your goods handled by a complete stranger in the hopes of making them more attractive. Gah.
That aside, Nicole comes out. OF COURSE, Nicole is a size zero, is sporting a perfectly coiffed mane of trendy blondeness, and is dressed impecably in what I recognize as an expensive Nordstrom skirt and blouse. "Hi, I'm Nicole," she purrs as she shakes my bewildered hand, "I'll be doing your bikini wax. Follow me."
We go into a small lime green room that has one of those bubble wall fountain things that is making a hell of a lot of noise and a cd player eschewing "calming music". Nicole instructs me to take off my pants while she leaves and hop up on a BED. Nicole, I hardly know you! Ack!
I strip off my pants, don't particularly want to put them on the floor, and stand there in a lime green with cute fruits thong and my barefeet, wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do next.
Nicole reenters, takes my pants out of my hand, "Let's just put these up here. Now, go ahead and hop up."
"Nicole," I said, still standing on the floor, "Uh, look. I'm Greek, I'm fat, and quite frankly, I'm nervous as hell. As you'll see soon, I've never had this done before. I'm afraid you have your work cut out for you."
Nicole says, "It'll be fine, come on."
I lay back, painfully aware that Nicole is staring at my crotch and is about to put her hands on it. Bless her heart, she is making conversation as she takes what looks like a stick of deodorant and is roughly running it along my inner thigh. I take a few deep breaths as she rubs on a cloth strip and brace myself as she prepares to--
"Hey! That wasn't too bad!" I am giddy. It really wasn't. My eyebrows hurt worse.
Nicole looks at the cloth, looks at my leg and then back at the cloth. "Um, that's because none of the hair came off."
She tries again, and I hear her make a weird sound. Same patch, again, and I feel like every square inch of skin along with some muscle tissue gets ripped up with the cloth.
"I have never seen this before," Nicole says, ripping the same place with the cloth again. "Are you on any medication?"
"Uh, I popped a few Advil before coming in here."
"No, that's okay. *rip* Look, I uh, don't think I should be waxing you if this *rip* isn't working...oh my God."
The absolute LAST thing that anyone should ever hear while in her underwear, laid out on a bed in a salon while getting her shit-taken-care-of is someone saying "Oh my God."
I wish I hadn't looked.
There was a HUGE (roughly four inches wide/long) black and blue bruise forming where Nicole had been ripping my skin. Hair was still visible in small patches. I nearly fainted.
"Are you diabetic? I don't want to scare you, but we're not supposed to wax diabetics because they bruise like you are right now."
Great, fucking great. I have scalding wax bound to my skin like fucking crazy glue, a bruise that's bigger than my hand on my inner thigh, and now I'm a diabetic. Fucking fantastic.
I am adamant that Nicole go closer and get the real job done; leave the thigh and I'll get that later, and she does. And it's fine. It hurts like hell, but it comes off cleanly with no bruises or second takes.
Once the front is done, Nicole asks me to turn over so she can do the back. It doesn't hurt, until the wax bonds to my leg again, and she can't get it off. Seriously, this stuff LOVES me and will not, under any circumstances come off. I'm developing a nice relationship with Nicole and everything, but I don't necessarily want her running her hands all over my buttcrack with baby oil all afternoon, so I tell her to leave it and I'll get it later.
Fiestada was waiting in the lobby for me. "Everything alright?"
"Yeah, everything's FINE," I said, through gritted teeth.
While fiestada was having her area taken care of, I decided to get super hot red streaks put in my hair to assauge the damage done to my netheregions. Samantha, a cool uberhippie with a fun disposition, took care of me and insisted we sing along with the 90s tunes blaring from the satellite radio.
Fiestada emerged, looking a little shaken, but otherwise okay. My hair was fucking HOT (pictures to come of its hotness) and I was pleased. A day well-spent.
When I got home, I looked at the results of Nicole's handiwork, and I was pretty impressed with everything, except for two things: a) the bruise on my inner thigh and b) the fact that my buttcheeks were stuck together with some leftover wax.
Beauty IS pain.