I just had the world’s most humiliating bikini wax. I am dying of shame so, of course, I’m here to share it with the world. Okay, not the world, per se, but the 9 people who regularly read my thought vomits. Who knows? It could be the world someday. Fingers crossed!

My regular lady wasn’t there. I didn’t even realize I have a regular lady until they told me she wasn’t there. I didn’t think it was a big deal so I just took whoever was available. I should have been concerned when it was the receptionist.

Innocently, and naively, I followed her into the tiny room they clearly sectioned off with asbestos drywall, rusty nails, and cheap paint. She didn’t even leave the room to let me undress. She just pointed to my pants. Like a prude, I gingerly slipped out of my pants and crawled onto the Table of Shame and Pain.

I still refused to take off my underwear, not that it mattered. She wrapped a paper towel around the front, presumably to protect my undies from getting covered in wax but she wound it so tightly, I ended up wearing a frontal thong. NOW I was getting concerned!

She waxed away and, by the third yank, I was pretty sure she wasn’t following my very precise “Triangular but smaller, no landing strip” instructions. But, like a terrible haircut you can see happening in the mirror, I couldn’t very well jump off the table while lopsided. I should have, though. Always trust your gut, damn it!

At one point she had me lift my right leg into the air so she could get a better angle — something I’ve never done or been asked to do before. I was a dead husk of a human being, holding my own leg up at this point. When she went to the left side, I asked if I should hold up my leg again. “No.” she said, “Don’t need to.” So, apparently I am half gorilla … literally, my right side only. Also, did I say I was dead? Not really, because I felt myself die just little more.

When she was done, she yanked the paper towel from my underwear like a magician pulling the tablecloth from under the dinner plates causing me to flinch like an abused animal. I pulled on my pants with nary a downward glance.

At home, when I found the courage to look down, I found a bonafide landing strip … a vaginal Mohawk, if you will. If my vagina had a face at this very moment, this would be it:

I imagine the neighbors heard the scream you see in movies — where it echoes as the camera goes from the room, to the building, to the city (with pigeons taking flight), to the whole planet.

How fast do hair follicles regenerate?

Asking for a friend.