I am not a woman who waxes, but because I am going to Spain tomorrow for a week, I decided to be a little adventurous.  I booked a lunchtime appointment today for a leg and bikini wax, and let the Waxer know I was going to go for something Brazilian.  “Are your hairs long enough for the wax to take hold?” She asked me on the phone.  “I think you’re going to have plenty to work with.  I’ve been saving up for four weeks just for this experience.”  Clearly, my growth was going to be sufficient.  I made the appointment Monday, and have been eagerly awaiting my date with the Waxer, not least because my lower legs were starting to look like those of a sixteen-year-old boy in the wild throes of puberty.  I figured I planned this pretty well – 24 hours of redness, and I will be fully beach-ready by Saturday.

All the ladies at my work had advice for me involving tea tree oil and exfoliants, and were excited for me to join the ranks of painful (but hairless!) pubes.  Ankles hurt the worst, it was widely agreed, although having the hairs ripped out of the delicate skin of your vulva is pretty impressive too.  I chose the Brazilian after careful consideration.  It’s probably the only time in my life I’ll try it out, as I’m generally opposed to bald genitalia, but I figured I’d keep a tasteful landing strip and what the hell – I’m going to IBIZA.  Why shouldn’t my pubes join the party?

Everything seemed to go fine with the full leg wax, which is how we started.  The ankle region was, as predicted, painful enough to make me gasp, but the Waxer and I kept up a steady stream of chatter and once I was accustomed to the rhythym, it was manageable.  I had asked if I should remove my panties before we started, and she told me not to, which seemed odd (I mean, how was she going to work around them?), but I figured she knew what she was doing and I am a waxing naif.  When we moved to the crotch region, she had me hold my panties to one side while she went to work.  The room was warm, and my palms were sweating buckets.  The ceiling lights were unneccessarily bright and searing into my eyeballs, but I figured propping myself up to watch the process would lead me to anticipate the pain and make it worse.  So I lay back and babbled about paella and tried not to glance at the obsene amounts of hair plastering the strips she was tossing into the wastebin (how is it possible that I have this much pubic hair?  It didn’t look so terrifying while it was ON me, but clearly I am part sasquatch and should donate my body to medical science). 

I asked her if anyone had ever thrown up from the pain.  Evidently alarmed, she said she hadn’t seen it happen personally, but maybe folk held it in until afterwards.  I reverted back to the subject of tapas (we both like chorizo!).

After a tortuous 45 minutes, we finished up and she told me to take my time getting dressed.  I sidled off the table and took a gander at my brand-new pubes.  While I could appreciate how nice and smooth the sides were, I wasn’t crazy that the landing strip made my vulva look like a little man with a mohawk.  But, four weeks of growth – I would just trim it at home and then it would be porn-worthy.  I was momentarily happy, except that I then felt further down between my legs, and the area was just as hairy as when I walked in the door.  It seemed I had gotten just a standard bikini wax, albeit daring in the front bit.  I pulled open the door to usher her back in. 

This part was really hard.  While I possess the requisite linguistic arsenal and comfort-level to discuss my vagina in a medical context with my gyno, I really wasn’t sure how to convey my confusion to the Waxer.  It basically went: “Um?  The front looks good.  But..  what about the in-between part?  There is still hair.  In that part.  In-between.  All over.  Yes?”

She was confused too.  “You wanted a Hollywood?  I don’t do those.”

A Hollywood?  This is the first I’ve heard of any damn Hollywood.  I thought requesting a Brazilian (not to mention saying “I want it all off save a strip down the front”) would ensure the correct result.  For God’s sake.  I guess I should have walked in and said, “Give me the baldest twat the world has ever seen.”  Apparently I am not down with the lingo.  It turned out another Waxer performed the elusive Hollywood, but she was fully booked and my flight is tomorrow lunchtime.  As I am not getting this finished off in Spain, seeing as I cannot communicate my waxing desires with British people, I ended up massively disappointed.

I made some calls when I got back to the office and secured another appointment at a different salon for 9:15 tomorrow morning, pre-flight.  But now that I’m home, looking at my sad, be-mohawked little vulva, I’m thinking maybe it wasn’t meant to be.  If I get the really delicate bits done in the morning, I should still be good to go for the beach, but…  it’s kind of red!  And I have a sneaking suspicion that I might develop a yeast infection, and that shit is NOT happening on my island paradise holiday.  What to do?  Should I cancel and learn to live with what I’ve got, or should I do the full monty, as I originally intended?

I would also like to point out that the second wax is going to cost an additional 30 pounds, on top of the 30 quid I dropped today (that’s $120 on something I’m not even sure I like).  And at some point, I should probably pack.  GOD, I hate holidays.

Please help, I cannot make up my mind.  And am I the only one who thought a “Brazilian” was what I was looking for?

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