So here I am, forty-blah years old and I hate the societal need for unwanted hair removal. I have struggled with this since grade 12 when I first had my “underarms” waxed (I learned quickly back then that we don’t say “armpit wax” when the spa receptionist dropped the phone in a fit of laughter and I was properly schooled by the owner who picked up the phone before the shame had a chance to hit me square between the eyes). The day after my aforementioned underarm de-thatching, I broke out in a raging red rash from my elbows to my chest… on the day of my prom… and yes, I was wearing a strapless dress like any other decent high school grad of the early 90s.
Was I scarred? Yes. Did I never wax again? Well…. I did dabble the summer we got married. Yes, I was wearing a strapless dress like any other decent bride of the early 2000s. I was older, wiser, smarter. I planned to start the whole process months in advance. The rash had time to clear up and I was able to keep up the maintenance plan and spend that summer as a hairless armpit of a bride.
Here I am now, in my forties and I have never waxed my “you know what” (aka “down there” aka “lady business”. Never. I went to Catholic school. I am far too repressed for that shit.
But today, everything changed.
After many late-night conversations with my friendly neighborhood wine moms, I decided it was time to wax again and after several days of cultivating a serious growth in the underarm area (see, you only need to tell me once) I made an appointment at one of these new-fangled wax bars (for the record they sadly do NOT serve booze much to my chagrin). If ANYONE could help me through this, it had to be a specialist in such matters.
Young Kelly with her lovely Irish accent, showed me to the room. When we were finally alone, I managed to pluck up enough courage to ask her. “I think I also want you to take care of my ‘bathing suit area’.” I said, barely audible. “You see, I’m in my forties and I’ve never done that” and then proceeded to tell her all about that time at the prom and how scared I was of a big red “vagage” rash. Poor Kelly, I should have offered her a chair.
“Don’t worry” she lilted. “I’ve done LOADS of these today. Just lie down.”
Lie down? What was I thinking? I toughened myself. “I’ve had 2 kids!” I thought. “I can handle the pain and plenty of people have seen my hoo-ha!” (I mean all the doctors and nurses when you have said baby. I’m not a stripper or anything.)
Minutes later she was finished. The whole thing took a fraction of the time of my lame-ass, long winded waxing history that I shared. Did it hurt? Of course it did. Like a son of a bitch. Next time I’m asking for an epidural. Is it awesome? You bet it is. Its GLORIOUS. I walked out of there with all kinds of confidence. Strutting my stuff like the most well-groomed peacock in the park. The last time I felt this sexy I was 10 months pregnant, two weeks overdue and my OB said sex might “move things along.”
I didn’t even go for the whole deal. Just a “classic” my Kelly called it. Can you imagine if I went for a Brazilian? I’d be pole dancing in the Safeway. For this forty-something mom with a “gunt”, this was a whole new lease on my sex life and you can bet the Mister was very pleased.
So off you go moms, wax away and never look back!
This author prefers to tell her hairy story under the pseudonym, Waxy Cleopatra.