“Are you going on vacation?” asked Nicole, my asthetician.
“Um, yeah.”
Is it that obvious that I’m not a regular at the Spa for waxing below the belt? Oh, wait, I admited the only other time I’d had a bikini wax was over a year ago in London.
“How far up do you usually go?”
“Um, not that far. I just want, you know, to wear a bathing suit.”
“So no G-strings or anything?”
“Um, no. Just normal.”
Then she hands me a terry cloth wrap and apologizes for not having paper panties for me to wear. When she starts the waxing, she tells me she hates the pain being waxed more than the pain of getting tatoos. We have something in common and we start talking tatoos.
Then we switch to ice cream and for the whole left side being waxed and half of the right side, I am an ice cream geek. Describing flavors, cost differences, benefits of sorbets vs italian ice, anything to avoid thinking about the hair she is ripping out of my bikini line.
I don’t even own a bikini. I don’t even own a bathing suit. But I MIGHT go to the hot springs while I’m in colorado this weekend. Towards the end, she pulls my underwear up and in…. “Hmmm, not even. Just a little more off the right.”
Ouch.
What I didn’t remember from London, aside from the pain, was the pain of jeans brushing up against freshly waxed skin. I walked from Western to Rockwell. Each step the denim raked tender skin, got caught on lingering wax, rubbed, ouch, catch, ouch.
Really? This is a good idea? At least it is over and in addition to even bikini line, I also have two (count em, two) perfect eyebrows.
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