There are few things I am shy about. People who know me or have had the obvious pleasure of meeting me (please infer at least a drip of sarcasm here), will attest to the fact that I am no stranger to discussing anything and everything. While others may feel a heady kind of shame (or, I don’t know, a keen sense of propriety?) in discussing private affairs, I have no such boundaries.
It is with this in mind that I cross yet another one, and regale you Sweet readers, with tales of yet another first. (2010 has indeed already been filled with its fair share of numero unos.)
This past week, I crossed over, or graduated if you will, from the bikini wax to the Brazilian.
Not to say I haven’t, um, gone all the way before, however, the process usually included a carefully timed bikini wax, and post-wax shave to complete the deed.
Why the aesthetic pas de deux you may ask? Well, for one, I try to avoid unnecessary pain, and god knows hot wax down under infers a whole other level of pain I did not want to experience. (Plus, we all wax and tweeze enough as it is.)
The second detractor being, well, the idea of someone way down in there, making small talk as wax was being ripped from one of the most sensitive parts of my body.
Well, at a friend’s urging (and promises of many hairless weeks being worth the initial pain), Brandy at Frilly Lilly in McKenzie Towne had the unlucky task of waxing, and talking me through my first time. The hour (yes, hour!), had it’s fair share of yelps (nay, screams), while thoughts of 'why the hell I was flat-backed on a table holding my leg to my chest while a stranger maneuvered through my lady business' raced through my mind.
I have to admit, Brandy was fabulous at dealing with the infantile wreck on her table (a sizeable tip came her way at the end!), and when she handed me the mirror to look at the result of the slathering and ripping, I had to admit, I liked it, and her creative ‘sculpting’.
That being said, it might be a while before I voluntarily sign up for that kind of torture again.