Finding a skilled groomer for my intimate areas can be more perplexing than selecting a gynecologist. When it comes to medical professionals examining my body, I’m surprisingly at ease. Sure, there’s a metallic examination happening while a nurse observes from the corner, but the clinical environment helps. My doctor even shields my legs with a paper towel-sized cover, creating a barrier like a curtain, reminiscent of a Wizard of Vag. This arrangement allows me to avoid scrutinizing his facial expressions, whether he’s smirking or appears horrified by the sight before him. Once, he even asked if he could invite interns to observe, and I cheerfully responded, “Absolutely! The more the merrier!” That’s how indifferent I am.
However, the experience with a waxer is a different story. The absence of a white coat and stethoscope shifts the ambiance entirely. Suddenly, I’m lying on a table, completely exposed from the waist down, while someone in regular clothes approaches my most private regions. Even if they sport pink scrubs, I’m not fooled into thinking they’re medical personnel. I could easily don scrubs myself, but that doesn’t qualify me to perform a colonoscopy. Thus, finding a waxer who instills comfort and trust is crucial.
After several attempts, I finally discovered a waxer I adored. The pain was minimal, our conversations were enjoyable, and any awkwardness vanished as we engaged in delightful chatter, making me forget that she was tending to my most intimate areas. But then, the dreaded call came: she had accepted a position elsewhere. A better job. A job that didn’t involve grooming my lady bits. She was off to become a hairstylist, leaving my local waxing salon for an uptown adventure. It felt like a breakup, forcing me to re-enter the dating scene, with every first date involving an awkward view of my private areas. So, in a sense, I felt like I had just gotten a divorce and turned into a promiscuous individual.
Last week, I tried my third waxer in what has become an exhausting series of rebound experiences. This new girl was incredibly quiet—so quiet that she didn’t utter a word throughout the entire process. No music filled the room either, resulting in an eerie silence that amplified every sound, including the faintest rustle of hair. That level of quiet is unacceptable to me; I thrive on conversation, laughter, and even the occasional inventive exclamation as the wax is yanked from my skin (I often resort to phrases like “Sweet Baby Jesus on a Tilt-a-Whirl!”).
To make matters worse, the new waxer had long hair—think Cher in the ’60s. And when someone with long hair is waxing your intimate areas, it inevitably dangles and brushes against your skin. Just as I was beginning to entertain an unexpected fantasy, the realization struck me: her hair could easily get ensnared in the wax, resulting in an unintentional bonding experience that would be incredibly awkward. What happens when you end up connected to another woman in such an intimate way? The possibilities were not promising, and as the silence lingered, I found my thoughts spiraling.
When a stranger is delving into your personal space, distractions are essential. I desperately missed my previous waxer—the laughter, the flow of conversation, the shared enjoyment of cheesy ’70s love songs that used to fill the room. Now, lying there with that silence, I couldn’t help but wish for the familiar comfort of my old waxer.
In a moment of absurdity, I glanced at a water stain on the ceiling that bore a striking resemblance to a vagina and chuckled to myself, only to be met with silence. There was no shared laughter, no acknowledgment from the waxer, just an uncomfortable stillness. My previous waxer would have found humor in it; she understood me. She had short hair that never ventured near my intimate areas, and I miss her dearly.
If anyone happens to come across her, please let her know I’m on the lookout. I can’t be hard to find; I’ll be the one who looks like she’s smuggling a Chia Pet in her bikini bottoms. There’s a good chance I may show up on an episode of Finding Bigfoot, given how much excess hair I’ll have without a waxer. If I spot people with binoculars searching the bushes, I’ll know exactly what’s happening.
As a child, I imagined being on a television show, perhaps something akin to Annie or the Carol Burnett Show. I never envisioned it would revolve around my unkempt lady garden. Little girls have many dreams, but I hope that’s not one of them.
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Summary
The process of finding a reliable waxer for intimate grooming is fraught with challenges, particularly when transitioning from a trusted professional to a new one. The stark difference in ambiance and personal connection can lead to awkward experiences, highlighting the importance of comfort and rapport in such personal interactions.