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Wax On, Wax Off
By Kelley Cousineau
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I finally figured out why Blondes have more fun. It's not the private jets and
the mind-blowing sex. It’s that they don't have to wax as often as their
raven-haired sisters.
Every year, right before bathing suit season starts, the conversation invariably
turns to the same subject: what to do about the pubes? "Should I tuck ‘em
in, shave ‘em, wax ‘em or wear a sarong and forget the whole thing?"
This is a decision no one can make for you. It’s between a woman and her God.
The only advice I can give is this: the women who neglect this chore are
infamous at the town pool. Watch out lest you become known as Sas-crotch or a
similar moniker coined for the Let-It-All-Hang-Out set.
For my latest adventure in good grooming I decided to go to the local day spa
instead of the cheap nail salon. I don't know what the actual difference in the
end result would be. But if I'm going to submit myself to excruciating pain in
the name of a fuzz-free summer, I deserve my complimentary cup of coffee and
Milano cookie first.
I walked into the wonderfully scented room, relieved to detect the pleasing
scent of Aromatherapy instead of the offensive note of Ass. Especially
considering what went on in there.
All the room was designed to put me at ease and relax me. The warmed towels on
the table, the professional-looking white coat, the soothing color scheme. Hmm.
This brings back a memory. Yes, that’s it! The birthing room! Why do people
think women can only spread their legs in a pastel-colored room festooned with
white linens?
I slipped into out-of-body mode as I dropped trow. I think it’s easier to deal
with the fact that a perfect stranger is going to rip out your pubic hair when
your mind is in a faraway happy place.
I climbed onto the table and waited as the waxer prepared her palette.
Surprisingly she didn’t flinch when she turned and saw the job ahead of her.
She only made a comment expressing her understanding of my burden, being a dark
girl herself and similarly endowed.
Not like the Korean waxers I’ve visited. "TOO MUCH HAIR!" they shout
at me. Like it’s my fault somehow. They’re tough, especially the fat ones.
They sweat over their cauldrons of hot wax and they slap your thighs before they
rip.
I’m sure they compare the worst offenders and scream with laughter when they
gossip at the end of their grueling days in Muffland. I remember walking out of
the little private room with my torturer and she started laughing insanely and
joking in Korean with her colleagues, obviously about me. "What is it about
these European-Americans? What’s with the fur coat? Is it that cold in
England? I deserve BIG tip! Ha Ha Ha."
Back to the task at hand. She asks me how much I want off, and I never know what
to say. I mean, are there names for different do’s, like "the
Hitler" or "the Truncated Triangle"? I just smile weakly and say:
"Oh, you know. Like everyone else gets."
OK, let’s get started, sister. If you can take it, I can.
I stare at the wall and listen to the "so soothing it's creepy" new
age music, sort of a cross between a bubbling brook and Kenny G playing the pan
flute, trying to ignore the fact that a Brazilian chick is practically going
down on me.
The music, the awkwardness; this is a scene out of a David Lynch film. There
might as well be a midget with a clown mask in the corner beating on a snare
drum.
The unfortunate girl gets down to it and performs wonders. Thinking about having
her job makes me more thankful than ever that I stayed in school. When she's
done my hoo-hah looks brand new, and friendly, sort of, if you can ignore the
vaguely menacing landing strip.
Then it’s onto the face. The moustache, the eyebrows, and increasingly as I
get older, the soul patch under my lower lip. So let us please put to rest once
and for all the claim that waxing makes hair grow back lighter. The next person
to say that should be forced to have a complete and total Brazilian wax without
the benefit of anesthesia.
As I bite through my lip to keep from screaming I’m tempted to ditch the whole
"bald eagle equals beauty" mentality and go natural. But let¹s face
it. I’m too chicken. Let someone else be the pioneer. I’ll lose my
appointment at the salon if I go marching in my Birkenstocks.
It’s the sad truth that, when it comes to turning men’s heads, everything
unnatural is catnip. We can't eat when we're hungry, we can’t let hair grow
where it clearly wants to grow, we can't wear comfortable shoes.
I say bring back the luxuriant ‘70s bush! That’s why our mothers always wore
bathing suits with skirts. At least it’s a start in the right direction. If
this movement picks up steam pretty soon porn stars will be having sex in ballet
flats. And maybe enjoying themselves for once.
But for now I'm stuck. Literally. I walk out of there with my jeans sticking to
residue wax in my butt crack. I'm sporting a puffy pink lip and looking like a
kid who just drank cherry Kool-Aid from a oversized cup. I paid fifty dollars
for this privilege.
Oh well. There’s nothing natural about natural beauty. It takes time, money
and pain.
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Kelley Cunningham Cousineau is an
artist/illustrator and writer. She is a frequent contributor to The Funny Times, Brain Child and
Mamalicious magazines. Her three
darling sons continue to inspire her, and she hopes to hell they never stumble
across this particular essay. She lives with her long-suffering husband in
Maplewood, New Jersey. That's exit 50B off 78 East, in case you're tempted to
ask that tiresome Joe Piscopo New Jersey joke.
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