Snatch You Bald-Headed

Did you used to play truth or dare when you were a kid? I recall chaperoning for one of E’s field trips last year and listening to the fifth grade girls playing. Truths in fifth grade are more boring than benign, involving lying to parents or stealing your sister’s candy from her Easter basket. And dares? Well, short of picking your friend’s nose or talking to a boy, how exciting can a dare be in the fifth grade? Those girls thought they were so bold, but really, they were as naïve as a bunch of ten year olds from the suburbs should be. As a friend of mine pointed out, truth or dare is a game wasted on the young.

Allow me to illustrate. My friend MJ and I recently indulged in a little grown up truth or dare. If you think about it, and come on, you know almost as much personal stuff about MJ as you do about me, you would think there would not be much territory left for us to discover about each other. And if you take that a step further, you would think there would be little left to dare one another that we haven’t already done. Well, it turns out we were wrong. And yes, that includes you.

MJ and I were having some down and dirty discussion about our lady parts (doesn’t everyone?) when it came to both of our attentions that neither of us had ever had a Brazilian bikini wax. Now, for those of you who might not know what a Brazilian wax involves, it is the painful removal of all pubic hair. All. No landing strip. No trim little Hitler’s mustache. No adorable little heart-shaped patch of thatch. It is a bald kitty, a sphinx, a Mexican hairless. And what happens to the front also happens to the back. When I say no hair, I mean none, even the outer planets of the solar system, namely Uranus. So there we were, having a conversation about our respective pubic hair styles when somehow the idea arose to dare each other to get Brazilian bikini waxes.

I have never been one to turn down a dare. I once ate a dog biscuit out of a bulk food bin at the grocery store, thanks to my sister. I have pretended that an odd-looking stranger was a long-lost friend of mine. But show my asshole to a perfect stranger? That was a new one even for me. After MJ pointed out that I show my vagina and its back door neighbor to more than one doctor during the course of a year, and that whoever does the waxing would be not an asshole fetishist but rather a professional , I couldn’t seem to find a good reason to turn her down. Well, there was always the pain factor, but who wants to look like a wimp? 

We hung up the phone to schedule our appointments, and then I called her back to let her know mine was in a couple of days. MJ was delighted, hoping that:  A. I would allow her to share in the fun via Facetime, and B. that I would scream “Kelly Clarkson” when my hair was ripped out. Think “The Forty Year Old Virgin,” only not with chest hair. I told her neither would be happening.

When the big day arrived, I went to the gym, came home, showered thoroughly, and selected a comfortable dress to wear along with the biggest pair of granny pants I could find in my underwear drawer. I was not interested in any chafing, or rubbing, and I had heard from my friend SF who heard from one of her friends, because yes, I discuss my pubic hair styles with lots of people, what’s it to you, that wearing jeans post Brazilian was, and I quote, “a really bad idea.”

I checked in at the spa and sat in the waiting area, with its soft lighting, overstuffed chairs, and New Age music clanging in the background, and I thought, I am going to have a heart attack. I was so damn nervous. You would think I was there for a mammogram or a colonoscopy, my heart was beating so fast. I thought about sneaking out before I was called back for my appointment, but I knew MJ was going through the same thing, and I couldn’t let her down. Finally, after the longest three minutes in history, the waxing specialist came in the waiting area. She led me back to her room, which was also very spa-like, but after she left to allow me one last moment of privacy and I got up on the table, sans granny pants, I noticed I was sitting on doctor’s office paper. The stirrups at the end of the table were strangely absent.

She knocked and came in, then turned on the overhead light, which I stared into like it was a solar eclipse in an effort to avoid any eye contact.  She instructed me to put the soles of my feet together on the end of the table and open sesame my knees. In yoga, this is known as cobbler’s pose. I will never do this pose again without cringing. She made small talk, asking me about my waxing experience (none), why I chose to do it now (dare), and how much I was going to love it (not likely). Then she smeared hot wax all around the main attraction, first on the left and then the right side. It was hot and similar in texture to peanut butter mixed with oatmeal and hot tar, only less lumpy. The heat was almost soothing, except that I knew what was coming next.

And then it was time for the big moment. Have you ever had your eyebrows waxed? You know how it kind of feels like your eyebrow is being ripped off your face, even though it’s really just a small little strip of hair? Well, this felt like I was being scalped. I had to hold my skin very taut as she tugged on the edge to loosen the wax, and then in a series of small painful tugs, she ripped the hairs, their follicles, and any extraneous skin off my body. It wasn’t like one big band-aid. It was like five or six big band-aids, all left on too long, so that your skin rips a little when you finally nut up and pull it off. It hurt, but not as bad at the right side. The right side of my pubic region was shaking, it was so scared. She went through the same process again, little tug, little tug, RRRIIIIPPPPPP.  I did not scream nor faint. I could have, but I chose not to.

After the pubic mound had been deforested, it was time to go on to more intimate locales. This involved the spreading of parts and more hot wax and more holding skin taut and more tugging and ripping. It still hurt. Then came the inspection. She got really close to my va-jay-jay and looked around, examining and searching. At one point, I expected her to scream “halloo in there!” to see if there was an echo, or maybe get out a flashlight and look for petroglyphs. Once she was satisfied with her handi-work, which yes, did involve touch up hot wax and subsequent snatching of hair, she was ready to move to the anal region.

“This won’t hurt as bad,” she informed me as she coated my ass with hot wax. Yeah, right, I thought but didn’t say, because, a little piece of advice, it’s not a good idea to piss off the person who is waxing your asshole. When the tugging and pulling and ripping began, I was pleasantly surprised. She was right, it really didn’t hurt as bad. On the scale of things that hurt, it was more than a splinter in your finger but less than having the hair ripped off the front of your pubic region. She treated me to a refreshing mist of witch hazel on my nether regions and stuck a couple of witch hazel soaked paper towels on what used to be my bush before excusing herself so I could change. I re-pantied, paid for my services, slammed back a plastic cup of water, and fled the scene.

At home, I inspected myself with a hand mirror. The first thing I noticed is that I lost a couple of chunks of flesh in the melee. Secondly, the paper towels stuck to my puss were covered in little dots of blood from my angry pores that did not want to give up their follicles. And thirdly, I was looking at my private parts with a mirror.

I called MJ to see how she faired. “Ooh, tell me all about it,” she squealed with delight. So I did, in graphic detail, because she hates to miss any of the good parts. I even told her about the little exfoliating pussy brush I bought, so I can prevent the dreaded ingrown hairs.  ‘Will you take a picture for me?” MJ, as you may recall, has moved to another state, so there would be no opportunity to show her in person, which may or may not have happened, depending on how much I had to drink.

“I am forty-two. Hairless or not, it is not camera ready,” I said. “But enough about me. How was yours?”

“Are you nuts?” she said. “I’m not doing that crazy shit. That shit hurts.”

I guess I won the dare. At least my husband thinks so.