Getting a bikini wax is humiliating from start to finish so, by all means, let me share my last experience with you.

For me, it’s already a mindfuck to be at the point of feeling hairy enough to even warrant the procedure. Think about it. How terrible do you have to feel about yourself to even consider not only going through this humiliation, but to pay money to have it done to you?!

My nephew once called the overgrowth “Einsteins” and I just about laughed myself into a case of acute laryngitis. I’ve also heard them called “sideburns”. Whatever they’re called, I’m not a fan.

It is positively horrifying to call the salon to make the appointment. It’s all business and revenue to them so I’m sure they don’t give it another thought but placing the call is making an out loud admission about which I am never I’m never happy.

Once there, I immediately begin jabbering like a nervous monkey. I make jokes and try to act blasé but I really just want to die.

The lady invariably assumes that I have no issue with stripping nude from the waist down and laying on the table in all my glory. She is terribly wrong. Not only do I keep my own underwear on, I ask for something to cover myself with until the absolute last possible moment. She is always slightly taken aback when she walks back into the room and finds me still practically fully dressed. Adri thought bubble —> [That’s right, lady, work around it.]

Next comes the order. I’m not ordering a burger and fries so this is torture. I have to explain what I want like I’m describing a haircut I might have seen on a celebrity in People Magazine: “Triangular, but smaller and a little off the top, please.”

For some reason, they always want to do a landing strip. [No, I do not want a vaginal Mohawk, thank you very much.] Or, they will ask me if I want a Brazilian. [Ummm, I have absolutely no desire to look pre-pubescent down there.] I want to just die with every one of these “consultations”.

Being waxed makes me a contortionist, apparently. She bends my legs and places my hand near my own nether regions to hold my skin taut (which is a whole other blahg, I tell you what). I avoid eye contact and start ‘hee-hee-who’ breathing like a woman in labor. She usually says something about it not being “that bad” but that nonsensical lie only makes me want to grab her by the Einsteins. The pain is excruciating, but passes quickly. That is the only positive review I can give this ordeal.

Then, the humiliation begins again when she steps back and asks me to take a look. [Really?! Do I have to? With you right there? Am I supposed to gush over your work?] I glance down for a millisecond and “Yup, looks great, thanks! We done?”

No, we’re not done. Now, I have to lie there while she looks for strays and cleans me with baby oil and cotton pads. [Kill me, please.]

As you can imagine, I’m very selective about the frequency in which I will put myself through this process but feeling like Sasquatch instantly raises the urgency level to DEFCON 1.

Like exercising, I’m always glad after it’s been done.

Feeling better about myself and immensely gratified that my humiliation was finally over, I be-bopped into the condo, dropped my car keys into the box, and hung up my purse. I went to the bathroom and looked down to discover that I had worn my underwear inside out the whole damn time. [Fuuuuuck!]

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