Wax On, Wax Off
You would think that at my age I would know better. Just because other folks are jumping off a bridge doesn’t mean that you have to. God, I would hate to call my mother and tell her that she is right. Plus, it’s too damn late. I’m already on the table, naked from the waste down. There’s no getting out of it now.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Claudia and I will be servicing you today. Since this is your first time, the most important thing to remember is to relax. The wax will feel really warm, and then you will feel the first tug. I am going to start out and work my way in. And again, just relax.”
I can never relax when someone tells me to, especially if they say it more than once. It doesn’t work that way for me.
This mess started while having lunch with Adrienne. We were talking about my upcoming trip to the beach, and how much I hate shaving my bikini line. She was outraged.
“You still shave? What are you- twelve?” she asked with incredulousness plastered across her face.
“Uh, yeah. I still shave. Why. What do you use? Nair?”
“Nope. I hate that stuff. It makes me break out. I get waxed. Been doing it for several years now. I thought you knew.”
“Now why would I know about your personal grooming habits?” I laugh, yet, I’m curious.
“Pretty much everyone gets waxed these days. Where have you been?” Adrienne continues to look at me as if I just got stepped off the U.S.S. Enterprise.
“So does it really hurt as bad as I think it does?” I can always count on Adrienne to tell me the truth.
“It’s not that bad. Do you think I would have been getting waxed for years if it hurt that bad?”
I should have known.
RIP! Ok, that shit really hurt.
“Try to relax ma’am. I know this is your first time. I promise you that the next time things will be much easier.”
I wonder if she gets a lot of criers?
What the hell am I doing here?
Ok, ok. I can get through this. Millions of women do this every month.
Again, I ask, why am I here?
“So, you are about to go on vacation, eh?”
And WHY is she talking to me? This is not relaxing to me. It is just making me more anxious.
“Yes” I say, through gritted teeth.
“You will love being waxed. And your man will love it, too.”
I don’t have a man. But she doesn’t need to know that. And it doesn’t matter anyway because she won’t be seeing me again.
There she goes again.
“Would you please turn over ma’am?”
“I need you to turn over and hold your boom-boom so that I can get your tail feathers.”
Are you freakin’ kidding me?! Can this get any more humiliating?
“You’re all done. Bald as a baby.”
I am 41 years old. I am NOT supposed to be bald as a baby down there.
“I’ll see you in six weeks. I guarantee that next time things will be much easier.”
She leaves me to get dressed and clear out of Room One so that her assistant can come in when I’m gone to clean up and prepare for the next victim.
As I march to the receptionist’s desk to hand over my credit card to pay for the craziness I just experienced, Claudia, The Hair Ripper calls out “Don’t forget- your next appointment is in six weeks. It’s already scheduled for you!” And she closes the door to Room Two.
You have got to be kidding me.