06-17-00
Wherein Kristen shares way too much personal information:
In the interest of saving myself time and discomfort, I decided to be a savvy 2k kind of gal and made an appointment to get my bikini line waxed. Now at this point, I feel that I must remind you that I am half Italian, and the only thing that really prevents me from being one of those swarthy italianate women is that I am naturally blond. If I were brunette, I am sure that I would have had my entire freaking body waxed by now. Either that, or I would be singlehandedly keeping the people at Jolen in business.
Anyways, I showed up for my appointment at the day spa all prepared for the worst, and let me tell you, was I woefully underprepared for the events that were to follow. I also feel that I must share with you that I have endured 3 tattoos, numerous eyebrow waxes, a nipple and a navel piercing, not to mention a recent recovery from traumatic facial surgery, and I am not a pain weenie.
Mistress Svetlana [not her real name] greeted me and took me back to the waxing area. I was asked if I wanted to retain my panties or would I like a disposable paper pair. Already feeling sort of exposed, I opted to keep mine on. I also told her I didn't want anything too freaky or pornstar-ish, just cleaned up around the edges. At her insistence, I clambered up onto the table, contorted myself into the pretzel like shapes she asked me to, and proceeded to spend the next 15 or 20 minutes in the most exquisitely torturous agony of my life. Mistress Svetlana spread gigantic puddles of hot wax all over my crotch, and then rapidly and viciously, with the tempo of machine gun fire, patted linen strips onto the sticky substrate and quickly ripped them away. All the while she maintained a constant patter that I didn't even attempt to follow.
Mistress Svetlana: "So, *pat* *yank* what *pat* *tug* do you *pat* *rip* do *pat* *tear*?"
Me: "I um, *twitch* uh, *flinch and squeal* I'm a -- HOLY CHRIST! -- uh, I mean a -- YEOW!!! -- cosmetologist."
I was sweating so profusely that I could barely keep my hand from slipping off the back of my thigh, which I was holding to keep the skin taut for her waxing. I know words other than expletives actually came out of my mouth, but I have no idea what I said. I may have given her my atm pin number and email passwords. I just don't know.
And after all of that, I actually thanked her for her time, paid my bill, left her a generous tip, and inquired as to how often this would have to be maintained. I didn't even check out the handiwork. I just paid and scrambled off to the safe haven of anywhere but there. 12 hours later, it looked not unlike two armies of Brazillian fire ants had viciously attacked me, narrowly avoiding the remaining pubic thatch. And that's not the only thing that looks vaguely Brazillian down there. I am fiery red, swollen, and itchy. I have saved neither time nor discomfort. Good Christ.
So a couple of things have come out of this. I no longer feel any pity whatsoever for people who complain about the pain when I wax their lips and eyebrows. I have a newfound respect for swimsuit models, porn stars and strippers, because they have this done regularly. I also would like to say that never having had children or kidney stones, I feel safe in admitting that this is the worst pain I have ever endured. I'm not trying to diminish the pain associated with either of the aforementioned conditions, except that they give you darvocet for one and an epidural for the other. I got nothing, except Mistress Svetlana telling me that I was doing very well for a first timer.
