Why I Lie to My Bikini Waxer
Back by popular demand! This is one of those great stories that never gets old … enjoy!
I was never much into waxing until I moved to New York. Back in Seattle–land of polar fleece and Birkenstocks–nether-region body hair was only an issue if it was hanging out of your bathing suit. In New York, it’s an issue if it exists at all.
And so I got hooked on the Brazilian (or semi-Brazilian – think Chiclet) – courtesy of a petite Russian woman named Natasha. She is quick, impeccable, and at just $30, her waxes are a somewhat well-kept New York secret. I faithfully visit her every four weeks and twist myself into various labor-and-delivery-like positions as she works her defuzzing action – all the while guiding me with Lamaze breathing.
“Deep in…and PUSH!” she barks as I inhale sharply, then exhale with force as she rips the muslin from my skin. This technique effectively distracts me from the pain – as does Natasha’s Vulvic Small Talk. At first, this was limited to the weather, my plans for the weekend, and whether I had any vacations lined up. But on the third visit, she ventured into the seriously personal.
“And how is zee monster?” she asked.
I lifted my head and stared down at her, puzzled. “I don’t have one.”
“No monster?” she said, eyebrows raised. “I thought you had monster.”
“No, I don’t have kids.”
“No, no,” she laughed. “Not kids. Monster. Boyfriend.”
“Oh,” I replied. “I don’t have a boyfriend either.”
“Oh…no monster. Is too bad,” she said, slathering wax onto my groin.