I normally would not share a story of a bikini wax from hell with my readers, but I’m watching “The Rachel Zoe Project” and for some unknown reason, something about this show is making me want to dish…
We’re leaving for this week to go to Maui for my brother in law’s wedding. (Twice in five months. I’m a lucky girl, I know!) Of course, leaving for a tropical vacation means beautifying from head to toe… I found an amazing waxer close to my house who charges a lot, but who’s meticulous, CLEAN (key!), fast and painless. BUT, since I’m a working mama now, I kind of need one-stop shopping. SO, at the urging of the woman who owns my nail salon, I decided to try her Waxing Lady.
When the WL took me back to the private room, I was a little taken aback by the fact that she put on a surgical mask. Perhaps she’s sick? “Are you sick?” I ask, as I start sliding off my jeans. “No. Duck chicken school.” Ummm…. okay. She is Vietnamese. Her English isn’t great, and under the mask it’s much worse. I lay on the table, fully nude from waist down, and she takes a big magnifying light, (the kind that the dentist uses when he’s digging for a cavity), and shines it down there. I take a deep breath.
“What we doing today, honey?” she asks, “Brazillian, Playboy…?”
“Um, both?” As if I really can ever tell the difference. She reaches into her little caddy.
“Whoah. What is that? What are you doing??!??!” I ask shocked. SHE IS SPRAYING SOMETHING. LIKE A FUCKING ODORIZER OR SOMETHING!
“Don’t worry. You don’ t want to know.” WHAT?! I DON’T WANT TO KNOW? WHAT????? Just for the record, this isn’t my first trip down bikini waxing lane. Been doing this for quite some time. NEVER, I repeat, NEVER has someone SPRAYED something near my hoo ha. Never. HOWEVER, I am now naked waist down. Hot wax is about to become my worst enemy, and an unclear Vietnamese lady is in charge. I take the second of MANY deep breaths, and decide not to respond.
The WL sticks the popsicle stick in the wax and approaches said area, “Hold, ” she demands, “HOLD!” she says again putting my hands on my thigh and stomach, making me pull back my skin, fat and organs so as to make the skin taught. “I’m holding,” I say frightened.
“Tighter,” TIGHTER?! How much more can I pull?! She YANKS my thigh back. “THERE!” She screams. RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.
“You see. Tighter. I get heaven.” Huh? Did she say “heaven?” Did she mean it gets “even?” I have no fucking clue. As I start to internally scream at myself for agreeing to let this wacky broad tear at my privates, without missing a beat, the WL has my hands pulling my other thigh and stomach tight again. Literally, she has me pulling, lifting, flattening my body out so much that you’d think I was a morbidly obese person who’s lost something in the folds of their fat. I think about asking her what the purpose of me groping myself like this is, because clearly it’s not to minimize the pain, but she’s already so busy proudly muttering something else about how “other people don’t do like I do” that I realize it will be pointless.
I sit up slightly to see the work that she’s done so far. She pushes my head back. “You look later.” Okaaaaaaaaaay. I guess she likes her clients to be surprised…
Next thing I know, she’s shoving a popsicle stick in my hand. “HOLD,” she says and positions my hand and the popsicle stick in such a way that I wonder if I’m causing physical damage. “HOLD.” She says again, pushing firmly. “Ow,” I say meekly, praying that this will be over soon. RIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.
“YES!” She exclaims and shows me the muslin. “You see. Very curly. Chicken. Pad thai bullet proof,” is what I can make out. Whatever. Just finish. Please. FINISH.
For the rest of the session she pulls, tightens, pushes and violates my hoo ha and has me in positions that I don’t think my husband has even seen. After a grueling 25 minutes, she finally finishes. I grab my underwear and jeans and pull them up. Was I just her bitch??
As I walk back out into the nail salon to pay, I can hear whispers in Vietnamese and I can only imagine what she’s telling them. Omg… So embarrassing.
And to quote Rachel Zoe: “DIE. I DIE….”