I got waxed today. For the first time ever.
Yes, I will be 35 years old in just over a month, and I have never before had the pleasure of having a complete stranger (in adult braces, no less) rub hot wax frighteningly close to my lady bits before ripping it off with a huge grin on her face.
Now, you may be wondering what prompted me to engage in such masochistic behavior (or perhaps that part is obvious–I did have two kids in less than two years, after all, so I’m no stranger to self-inflicted pain and misery). It’s true, we are going to the beach next week, and my Jewish-Italian heritage presented itself in a rather hairy way after a long New England winter. I decided it was time to take decisive action.
But it wasn’t just the vacation. It was about my girls, too–my increasingly pink and sparkly and shiny and desperately fancy daughters. I don’t have a problem with their feminine leanings, and if that’s what they’re into, then I will happily support them. But if it continues past puberty, I’m seriously unprepared to guide them.
I’ve always been a tomboy, along the lines of Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality, except I never got the beauty queen makeover. (It’s probably a good thing, too, as I would totally stuff donuts in my cleavage, and I bet that’s not nearly as cool when it’s not in a movie.) When I was a kid I was more into She-Ra than Barbie, and I wore purple Umbros and t-shirts from my best friend’s dad’s construction company to most of middle school. I remember staring longingly at all of my friends’ bangs, wondering how they magically curled up and down in perfectly round rolls while mine just hung limply across my forehead. It was months before someone told me they used curling irons and hair spray. It had never even occurred to me.
I wear clogs to high-end fundraisers. I don’t own any makeup. We used to have a tube of bright red lipstick in the house, which was resurrected every year for Purim until I learned that you’re not supposed to keep makeup that long, especially when you and your husband both use it. Dress up just isn’t my strong point, especially once you get past plastic pearls and fairy wings.
Nonetheless, I want to be able to educate my daughters about Advanced Feminine Techniques, should they ever express an interest. Certainly, I’ll never be an expert, but I’ve got my husband to back me up. He knows the difference between woven and knit fabrics, and which ones are appropriate at certain times, and he knew what dress shields were long before it ever occurred to me that such a thing might exist (think maxi pad for your underarms).
And so, I paid a complete stranger to inflict a tremendous amount of pain on me, all for the sake of vanity my daughters. She was very kind, telling me I was doing great and even cooing at me a bit, not unlike how I talk to my daughters when they are about to get a shot at the doctor’s office. I would love to tell you I went all Steve Carrell in Forty Year Old Virgin every time she yanked the wax (and all of my hairs) out, but I just winced and squawked a lot. Not one of my finer moments.
I’m glad it’s over, and I don’t plan on ever doing it again. I will happily drag a piece of sharp metal across my skin every day if I have to. It’s hard to imagine my girls ever having enough body hair to require the use of hair removal techniques, but should they ever get there, I’ll be able to help them. And I’m going to look damn good on the beach next week.
