Brazilian Waxing = Medieval Torture?

By Olua

My roomie once said, in a conversation that I very much regret missing, “You know, I could see why you would trim your bush if it got a little out of hand…but I don’t know why the hell you would cut the whole thing down. It just makes your lawn look funny!” And, no, we were not talking about horticulture.

Au naturale doesn’t really seem to be the method of style in female nether regions. It supposedly looks neater when it’s taken care of. I know a lot of girls who keep themselves trimmed, and quite a few who wax. It’s easier than shaving, I’ve heard said. You don’t get the obnoxious bumps that you normally get when you shave that inevitably leads to impromptu itchy dances. Not to mention it’s a lot neater and it takes longer to grow back. I never really supported it; it didn’t even seem like it was worth the effort to me, not to mention I’m not sure how I feel about men who want their women’s parts to look prepubescent. Still, I’d heard so much…

And so, in another one of my infamously stupid ideas, I decided to get a full Brazilian wax last summer. For those who don’t know, there’s a difference between Brazilian waxes and bikini waxes. Bikini waxes are really more like a neat little trimming so that, as the name suggests, you can wear a bikini confidently. Brazilian waxes are when you get everything – EVERYTHING – waxed off. Mind you, no one was going to be seeing the result of this wax except for me. It was nothing but curiosity.

And yes, curiosity really does kill the cat. Warning: this gets a little graphic from here on.

It took me a little while to just work up the nerve to go to an actual clinic. The middle aged Chinese woman looked like she really could’ve care less that a very hesitant young female had just stumbled into her salon and stammered out a request for a Brazilian wax. She smiled and wordlessly led me to a back room, far removed from everyone else getting pain-free beauty procedures. She told me to remove everything from the waist down, then said she would be right back and left my to my privacy.

For a second, I stood in front of the mirror and stared. My bush was, well, bushy. Like it’s supposed to be. Why was I doing this? What was wrong with me? I had a moment where I realized that this was a very very bad idea, but the woman had already come back in.

I never really thought a woman rubbing talcum powder over my privates was something that’d ever happen to me in my lifetime, but there I was, lying on my back and hearing the woman patiently explain, “This is so the wax doesn’t stick to your skin.”

The actual applying of wax was definitely the calm before the storm. It was VERY warm, bordering on but not quite hot. I must’ve been wincing in anticipation, because the woman comfortingly offered, “It doesn’t hurt as much as everyone says it does.” And at first, she was actually right! It hurt, there’s no lie in that, but only a little more than leg waxing. I was actually rather surprised – especially because I have such a low pain tolerance. Before I knew it, my mons – the little mound of flesh right above your goodies – suddenly felt pretty naked. “I can actually do this,” I thought to myself, rather pleased. I was getting a wax and it wasn’t bad at al-

“This might hurt a bit.”

That was the only warning I got before she yanked back on the strip on the left side of my labia. I’m pretty sure everyone in the salon heard my animalistic yelp of pain. I almost kicked the poor woman, I think. I distinctly remember crying. I had barely recovered when she ripped off the other side.

It was around that time that I decided Brazilian waxing must’ve been some form of torture invented by the Brazilians to punish women who had done something horrible. I must’ve looked ridiculous on that table, shaking and twitching, clutching and ripping at the paper sheet beneath me and trying very, very hard to retain my dignity by not crying. There was one final yank, but it didn’t hurt anywhere near as badly as the two before it had.

“There. All done,” she said in a practiced voice as she wiped off the remnants of talcum powder and wax with a warm cloth. “You can stay in here until you’re ready to leave, if you’d like.”

I remained on the couch/table device that seemed like something I would’ve found in the doctor’s office for a good few minutes. Then, slowly and awkwardly, I eased myself off of the table. I started to put my undies on, but it hurt far too much to actually let them stay on, so I just slid on my skirt and awkwardly waddled out.

Once I got home after a bus ride that tested my ability to stand on constantly lurching public transportation with my legs slightly apart, I stretched out on my bed with a mirror to check myself. I was still a little red and tender to the touch, but the soreness had gone down significantly – and by the end of the day, when I was getting ready for bed, it was mostly gone.

Now, I won’t lie. I did feel pretty clean for a good month and a half or so, until the hair finally started growing back. But that, really, is the only plus. Some people say that sex is better after a Brazilian wax, and while I didn’t have the opportunity to test that out, old Ramses and I didn’t notice much of a difference. Now that my bush has grown back most of it’s foliage (a surprisingly itchless process), admittedly, I do sort of miss that clean feeling. But I will not, not, NOT go through that again ever in my life.

Okay, maybe for my wedding night, but that’s it.