The Agony and The Agony

So where did we last leave off? Ah yes, I was wriggling uncomfortably on the wassing table while my new wassist (old hair-on-head stylist) thumbed idly through “The Art of Waxing” and the drums of portent thundered above. Then several anvils started falling from the skies, one right on to my vajayjay, but I was trapped on the wassing guerney by a complicated knot of emotions, including guilt, loyalty and embarrassment.

That’s about where we left off, I think. Let’s just take this in point by point, because this trip was such a disaster it’s hard separating out each seperate act of incompetence. I was notorious for numbering on law school examples as well, really helped me keep track of the issues.  

1. So, what happened next is that my wassist put down So You’ve Never Wassed Someone’s Twat Before, But You’d Like to Start and meandered dreamily out of the room, leaving the door open with me NAKED ON THE TABLE, jungleboogie in full view. Just as I managed to slink off the table and hobble over to the sliding door, cupping my crotch with my hand, she comes back with the wax, in the warmer.

Why you get up? she asks me in COMPLETE SURPRISE.  

Because you left the door open and I’m naked in a CO-ED salon, I respond, while fantasising about garroting her with one of my own pubes.

Ohhhhhhhhhhh, she says, putting on that expression people use when they act like they know what you’re talking about, but really they have no clue.

Anvil of Doom #1 falls on my pinkie toe, slicing it clean off.  

So I get back on the table, my lovelies, praying that this situation gets better real fast, because Krishna Almighty, we’re about at the point where’s she’s going to start ripping hair out of my CROTCH.

2. We’re back on the table, we’re praying and thinking about how loverly we’re going to look in our painted on jeans. My wassist, meanwhile is huddled over the warmer, stirring the wass while muttering double double toil and trouble to herself. She turns around, holding a popsicle stick in her hand.

Is this too hot, you tink? she asks me.

Well, I hardly know, you’re kind of just waving it at me, aren’t you? I respond.

To which she responds by smudging the wass on my leg. I guess this isn’t that big a deal…but she just LEFT IT ON THERE. Now keep in mind, getting WASSED isn’t cheap. It’s damn close to a $100 for a Brazilian at this place (and yes, that’s because it’s a nicer salon). Things I expect when paying for a Brazilian

a) That the aesthetician know what the optimal temperature the wass should be heated to

b) That she not SMEAR various bodyparts with wass temp based queries and then just leave them on there. That’s so FREAKING unprofessional. I mean, come on. I don’t want a shmear of wass just hanging out on my thigh, okay? If you’re going to guinea pig on me, at least have the courtesy to rip it off.

Oh, for the record, I said, “look, I don’t think it’s hot enough, it’s still too sticky and I’m worried it will just get caught down there.” I do plenting of de-pelting at home, with wax, and while I probably err TOO much on the side of overheating, it’s my personal opinion that wax works best when it’s a wee bit more viscous. Once it gets too sticky, you run the risk of ripping skin. Again, this depends mostly on the variety of wax as well, so my experience may be a combo of my having a high tolerance for heat as well as the brand I use (Sally Hansen Lavender Spa).

Nahhhh, she responds, and then turns back to the wass warmer.

Anvil of Doom #2 falls directly on my head, raising an egg-shaped bump of wouldacouldashoulda.

3. So now we’re at the point, she has marginally warmed up the wax to a point at which she feels comfortable and is approaching me with the popsicle stick.

Wait, I say in a panic.

Whaaaa???? she asks.

(alright, a little personal TMI letting you know exactly HOW long since the last BF, because I never let a single one ever see me with pubes)

The hair is really really long, [TWoD] usually trimmed it before she waxed, otherwise you won’t be able to rip it out, I say, hurriedly, pushing out the words before she could make a GIGANTIC DRASTIC MISTAKE.

Naaaah, I don’t tink so???????? she responds with that semi-retarded UPTALK thing she does at all times. Incidentally, if you’re approaching my crotch with hot wax…or anything else really, PLEASE DON’T UPTALK-QUESTION me. Stand by your statements and positions with declarative punctuation. It doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence as to the validity of your opinions, otherwise.

She then proceeds to size up my crotch, mentally debating to herself as to WHERE TO START.

You have to go outside in, so start at the edge of my leg, I say, gritting my teeth. Then, because THAT’s what you’re supposed to do, I crook my leg a little and hold down the skin with my hand for her. EVERY OTHER waxist I’ve had has asked me to help in holding the skin as tightly back as possible, in order to allow for ripping it on as flat a surface as possible. EVERY OTHER waxist starts outside in, because the further in you go, the MORE PAINFUL IT IS.  

What you do, you so weird, she huffs at me, then proceeds to smear the wax, RIGHT DOWN THE CENTER OF MY VAJAYJAY. Like a GO FASTER RACING STRIPE right down the middle of my crotch.

Anvil of Doom #3 now falls right on to my face, requiring me to make a nose job appointment with Dr. Rey, he of the tae kwon do and sleeveless scrubs.

4. Having proceeded to brush a Herbie stripe down the middle of puddy, she proceeds to lay down the wassicle, pick up a cloth strip and position it on the wax.

And then…

        and then…

The Spanish Inquisition.

                       The single most painful experience of

my entire life.

Requiring me to write like the words are falling through the space-time continuum,

                 which is just like I felt,

except, replace space time continuum with

                         a

TUNNEL OF PAIN

a

                        WORLD OF HURT

a journey into the

hEART

OF

DarKNESS.

                              What?

Salman Rushdie does it all the time.

              Shut

up.

What happened next is clouded by a fog of confusion and pain, but essentially she mucked it up just like I’d told her. The hair WAS way too long to pull out, she had started in the middle, which is the LAST place you’re supposed to wax and the wax wasn’t hot enough. So she leans on my leg with her full weight and starts tugging at the strip anemically, like a limp wristed flick was going to send it and my pubes just tumbling down the hill, Jack and Jill.

Nothing happens.

She changes position, leans harder on my leg, this time leveraging the position she’s in to lean back like she’s about to pitch a ball, and pulls.

There is agonizing pain. I think she did it all, that she ripped off the whole strip, but something feels funny down there, still a bit attached. Bhe pressure on my leg eases and through the Mist, I see her smiling dumbly down at me.

Thass hard, she crows, and then WIPES HER BROW, WALKS AWAY AND TAKES A SIP OF WATER WITH A HALF RIPPED WAX STRIP STILL CLINGING TO MY CROTCH.

READERS,

SHE TOOK A BREAK MID-RIP.  

The tears were blinding my eyes at this point, which is good, because it was about when massive rolling boulder of “This is a Super Bad Idea” from Indiana Jones has fallen on my torso and I am pinned in some nether-world of pain and more pain, but the distinct awareness that I can’t actually leave until she rips the rest of that strip off, because it didn’t seem like a good idea to just hop off with a half ripped wax strip clinging to my ladyparts.

5. I’ve shut my eyes and merely trembling on the table, waiting for her to come back. I hear her scuttle over and offer up every prayer to Ganpati, patron god of Maharashtrians, to let me get this half strip over as fast as possible.

Instead, I feel her smear the wass, on the outside of my leg. My eyes fly open.

What are you doing? I shriek at the stupid ninny.

Oh, that one too hard, I go back to later, she says to me. I guess her single brain cell strained at the seams to come up with this out-of-the box plan. THE ONE WHERE SHE LEAVES A WAX STRIP HALF ATTACHED TO MY CROTCH. I mean, WHAT THE FROCK. This isn’t the SAT’s lady, you can’t exactly come back to the super-hard antonyms section while maximising wax bits you think will get you more points.

By this point I’ve had enough.

No, I respond, I’m done. Take the rest of that strip off and this is done. You don’t know how to do this and I’m in considerable pain, please just stop.

I can tell I hurt her feelings but honest to gods, I didn’t care.

Anyway, it too her two more tries and many huffs and puffs to get the Go Faster Racing Stripe strip off. It was the slowest single rip I’ve ever experience for ONE WAX STRIP.

And when I looked down what I saw was that

a) I had a waxed stripe DOWN THE CENTER OF MY CROTCH.

b) She had done it so incompetently that the whole stripe was PURPLE because she had bruised the skin with her stupid 3 attempts at one strip rip technique. So I’m not just imagining the pain and incompetence here. I had been as good as punched in the vagina. In STRIPE FORM.

There isn’t much else to say. She also forgot to take that smear of wax she’d put on my leg to guinea pig me, and the other one when she decided she was going to try the harder strip when she felt up to it, and they both ended up stuck to my pants and underwear respectively, and I ended up having to take a scissor to my nethers to pick it out later on that night. The stupid slag actually kind of paled when she looked at the bruising (which occurred very fast) and hurriedly told me there would be no charge. I considered punching her in the throat but quietly hobbled out of the room and salon with what remained of my dignity.

I am never going there again.

6. Helpful illustrations: now, as I said, I go whole hogger and get rid of it all (because that’s the way I like it) but most women ask for this:

You know, THE LANDING STRIP, har har.

I, on the other hand, asked for Mount Baldy, and came back with this salon special:

The founding father, as I like to call it.