WARNING: TODAY'S BLOG ENTRY CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF FEMININE GROOMING RITUALS THAT YOU PROBABLY ARE MORE COMFORTABLE JUST NOT THINKING ABOUT.
So I'm in full chicken-with-head-cut-off mode in getting ready for Australia. (Australia! Australia! Aus-- ok, I'll shut up now.) Today was devoted to (1) Book buying (hey, it's a long-ass flight), and (2) The dread Feminine Grooming Rituals. Aieeeeeeee!
What the hell does that mean? I got my haircut (no problem), and had the following bits waxed:
My take on the experience:
OK, stay with me here, it makes sense. When I was growing up, we used to hang out with the Reillys (parents Bernie and Rosemary, kids Erin, Jenn and Baby Bernie, who is now apparently 6'3" and a West Point grad -- I remember when he was born! Oh. Sorry, I digress), who were friends with this family called the Currys, who lived out on a a farm in Pennsylvania. Erin and I were walking around the the farm with Hershey, the Reilly's dog, one day when we came to a wire fence. We knew there were electrified fences on the farm, but we didn't know if this was one of them. Being idiots, we tried touching it with a stick to see it -- I dunno, if it burst into flames or sparked or something. (Yeah, yeah, conductive material, I know, gimme a break, I was 8 or something.) Nothing happened upon prodding the fence, so we decided it was safe to climb over. Hershey got tired of waiting for us and skimmed under the fence -- then proceeded to run in circles yelping (seriously: "Yipe! Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!" just like in the cartoons) for what seemed like 10 minutes. "Ah," we said, "Electric fence. Now we know. Thanks, Hershey!" Then we wandered the perimeter until we found a gate and let him out.
So that's what it felt like -- the sort of thing that makes you want to yell "Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!" and run in circles until it goes away.
The woman who did my waxing was very nice, but the conversation was... odd. I told her this was my first waxing experience, and she proceeded to tell me about how she almost passed out when doing a Brazilian wax on herself. (For those who don't know -- that means taking off pretty much all hair below the waist, in whatever nook or cranny it may reside.) Then she said "You look tense." Hmm, go figure.
"So," she said, "How do you want this to look." How do I want it to look? I'm going to be living in a bathing suit, and I don't want it to look like I'm smuggling a long-haired angora guinea pig in the crotch of my suit. I'm not real picky -- I'm not actually expecting to get all that naked while I'm there, thanks. Despite this, the waxer spent more time making sure my, ahem, "bikini area" was even than the hairdresser did to the hair on my head. Very odd.
Her conversation pretty much revolved around what I like to call "Pubic Hair I have Known." This included a women with exceedingly long pubic hair ("It must have been 8 inches long!") and another woman who objected to the waxing of what is euphemistically known as The Treasure Trail, the line of hair going from your belly button south. Her response to that: "Maybe it was a religious thing." The mind reels.
So, to sum up, after far too much information: Bikini waxing really hurts. Men who like their women smooth and lovely about the naughty bits -- try it yourself some day. Oy. Geh. Ow. There is only so much suffering I'm willing to go through in a relationship.
So I'm in full chicken-with-head-cut-off mode in getting ready for Australia. (Australia! Australia! Aus-- ok, I'll shut up now.) Today was devoted to (1) Book buying (hey, it's a long-ass flight), and (2) The dread Feminine Grooming Rituals. Aieeeeeeee!
What the hell does that mean? I got my haircut (no problem), and had the following bits waxed:
- Eyebrows (Ow!)
- Armpits (OwOwOw!)
- Legs (OwOwOwOwOwOwOwOwOwOw!!)
- Bikini Line (OwOwOW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! times 10 to the 5th power.)
My take on the experience:
Armpits: It hurts, but it's over pretty fast, and I apparently won't have to shave for a month or so. Cool.I was trying to figure out how to describe the sensation -- which, when you think about it, is stupid, as it feels like someone is ripping your pubic hair out. Duh. OK, think of someone pulling your hair off your arm with duct tape. Now think of that happening someplace infinitely more sensitive. There you go. -- and the main (non-public-hair-related) image I came up with was of a dog and an electric fence.
Leg: Definitely not over fast. The shins and ankles hurt A LOT. I broke down and shaved two weeks ago before the Live Bait benefit (I didn't feel hairy ankles went well with my sparkly pants), and she said that it saw still growing back. Hmmm. So I may have to do some touch-ups while Down under.
Bikini line: Speaking of down under.... Oy. This hurts like CRAZY.
OK, stay with me here, it makes sense. When I was growing up, we used to hang out with the Reillys (parents Bernie and Rosemary, kids Erin, Jenn and Baby Bernie, who is now apparently 6'3" and a West Point grad -- I remember when he was born! Oh. Sorry, I digress), who were friends with this family called the Currys, who lived out on a a farm in Pennsylvania. Erin and I were walking around the the farm with Hershey, the Reilly's dog, one day when we came to a wire fence. We knew there were electrified fences on the farm, but we didn't know if this was one of them. Being idiots, we tried touching it with a stick to see it -- I dunno, if it burst into flames or sparked or something. (Yeah, yeah, conductive material, I know, gimme a break, I was 8 or something.) Nothing happened upon prodding the fence, so we decided it was safe to climb over. Hershey got tired of waiting for us and skimmed under the fence -- then proceeded to run in circles yelping (seriously: "Yipe! Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!" just like in the cartoons) for what seemed like 10 minutes. "Ah," we said, "Electric fence. Now we know. Thanks, Hershey!" Then we wandered the perimeter until we found a gate and let him out.
So that's what it felt like -- the sort of thing that makes you want to yell "Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!" and run in circles until it goes away.
The woman who did my waxing was very nice, but the conversation was... odd. I told her this was my first waxing experience, and she proceeded to tell me about how she almost passed out when doing a Brazilian wax on herself. (For those who don't know -- that means taking off pretty much all hair below the waist, in whatever nook or cranny it may reside.) Then she said "You look tense." Hmm, go figure.
"So," she said, "How do you want this to look." How do I want it to look? I'm going to be living in a bathing suit, and I don't want it to look like I'm smuggling a long-haired angora guinea pig in the crotch of my suit. I'm not real picky -- I'm not actually expecting to get all that naked while I'm there, thanks. Despite this, the waxer spent more time making sure my, ahem, "bikini area" was even than the hairdresser did to the hair on my head. Very odd.
Her conversation pretty much revolved around what I like to call "Pubic Hair I have Known." This included a women with exceedingly long pubic hair ("It must have been 8 inches long!") and another woman who objected to the waxing of what is euphemistically known as The Treasure Trail, the line of hair going from your belly button south. Her response to that: "Maybe it was a religious thing." The mind reels.
So, to sum up, after far too much information: Bikini waxing really hurts. Men who like their women smooth and lovely about the naughty bits -- try it yourself some day. Oy. Geh. Ow. There is only so much suffering I'm willing to go through in a relationship.
posted by SAJ at
6:30 PM
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