Warning: This is TMI

Apr 18, 2015 by

          Let’s talk about the vagina. (If you clicked on this post despite its title, I’m giving you one last chance to stop reading. Guys who like to pretend that girls are naturally hairless, that means you.) And since we’re talking about the vagina, I’m rewording to cooch. And now that we’ve got my naming convention down, let’s talk about what we’re really talking about: the Brazilian wax, the removal of all vaginal and anal hair by way of ripping it off.

          Every woman has a preference for how she likes to take care of her area. Some strongly prefer waxing to the point that they cringe at the thought of shaving. Others prefer shaving, wincing at the mere idea of waxing. A few actually like their hair (and it’s not unheard of for guys to like it too). Ladies, you do you. No approach is wrong or gross or weird, even if other women tell you otherwise because your way of doing things is different from theirs. Honestly, I’ve plucked. That’s right; I’ve taken tweezers to my cooch on more than one occasion, and I know other girls that have too. Sometimes you’ve just got to do what you’ve got to do, so you do whatever you feel comfortable doing.

          Having said that, I think every woman should try getting a Brazilian wax at least once, because it feels good. Not during. During the process, you’re going to feel one of the worst physical pains of your life. For me, I’m pretty sure it ranks number one most physically painful experience. Fracturing my ankle in Rome has nothing on it. I didn’t even break a sweat when I hit the ground outside of the Vatican Museums three summers ago, my ass landing on my ankle. (Yeah, figure that one out.) If you’ve never had a Brazilian before, I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you. My first time, when I was in high school, I went in with the expectation that it wouldn’t hurt as much as it sounded like it would and that it becomes less painful over time, because that’s what I was told. You need to go in with the expectation that it will be physically traumatic. You will sweat. You will bleed. You will breathe like you’re prepping for labour. Your legs will quiver, your body will jolt like an electric current is running through it with every strip pulled, and you will walk with a slight limp afterward. Oh, and that bit about it getting better over time is only true when “over time” refers to years.

          Now that I feel I’ve thoroughly prepared you, let me explain my history with wax. I have a mother that’s anti-shaving, so I was raised to wax. (Note: My mom grows a total of six hairs on her legs per year – maybe. It’s easy for her to like waxing. Also note: I did not inherit her hairless gene.) In elementary school, that’s how my legs were taken care of, until, the night before my Grade 8 camping trip, I decided to wax my own legs. I made it through the bottom half of one, cried, and then shaved for the first time. I haven’t waxed my legs since. I can’t justify the pain or the cost. I don’t notice enough of a difference between waxing and shaving in how my leg hair grows back or how quickly it returns to put myself through that. In fact, I can’t justify paying for any hair removal. I haven’t so much as gotten my eyebrows threaded in over four years because I can pluck them myself. For four years, Brazilian waxing was subject to the same mentality: it’s too expensive and I can simply shave (or pluck) myself.

          Remember, I was raised to wax, so in high school, when it came time to address my cooch, I did not reach for a razor. I went straight to my regular, Indian-run esthetics boutique. I much prefer to be waxed by Indian women, because they’re thorough and they don’t charge up the ass (despite literally being there). The place I used to go to in my teens cost me $25 for a Brazilian, plus tip. (I always tip. Any woman willing to get more in touch with my cooch than I or any guy have ever been for no physical return on investment deserves a tip.) Twenty-five dollars for a Brazilian, FYI, is a friggin’ steal! Many places charge upwards of $50, which I think is outrageous; so, when my fav little Indian boutique closed years ago, for the razor I grasped.

          I didn’t love shaving, because the result isn’t as smooth and the hair grows back thicker and much, much faster. (How the hair on my head takes a year to grow an inch but my cooch can do that in mere weeks after shaving is a question for science.) Nonetheless, I refused to pay $50, especially without a boyfriend to make it worth it. I get that you-don’t-need-a-boyfriend-to-wear-pretty-underwear, do-it-for-yourself attitude, but Brazilians hurt so bad that I stress sweat the entire day leading up to one. There didn’t seem to be much in it for me, so I preferred to shave and save $50. That is, until a friend told me of an Indian boutique near her house that only charges $30, prompting me in February to reacquaint myself with the Brazilian wax for the first time in four years.

          I warned Mandeep, the esthetician, that this would not go over easy. In the end, including all of my necessary breaks between shocks of pain, it was a 45-minute process. That said, it wasn’t as horrible as I remembered it to be. There was sweat, blood, labour-like breathing, and such, but it wasn’t torture.

          “Mandeep, that was actually the most relaxed I’ve ever been during a Brazilian,” I said with my legs still twitching.

          She laughed. “It’s a good thing you came on a Thursday night,” she told me. “On the weekend, it’s so busy that we have women in and out of here in 15 minutes.”

          “Fifteen minutes?” I gulped. “How?”

          “You’re a unique case,” she assured, making me laugh.

          I felt like queen of the world after, as any Brazilian-wax survivor should. Committed to not shaving now that I have access to Brazilians that are reasonably priced again, I returned to Mandeep last night. (Re: I don’t have a boyfriend. The two-month gap is fine.) I was surprised to see that she remembered me.

          “You were a unique client,” she reminded with a smile.

          Mentally prepared for the worst, both Mandeep and I were shocked when I no more than flinched this time. There was no sweat, no heavy breathing, no necessary breaks, and only a tiny bit of blood. I was in and out in 15 minutes. I felt like superwoman. I drove to Dairy Cream for peanut butter funnel cake afterward like I owned Earth. It is for that feeling, ladies, that I recommend Brazilian waxing, even if just once to try. It will sting to pee after. There will be traces of blood on your underwear. Your vaginal lips will stick together until you get to a shower. But you will be queen of the world.

Happiness Tip: Get a Brazilian.

 
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