The Brazilian Bikini Wax

This is what I would like to know--what sadistic, evil, torture-mongering misogynist determined that a hair-free womanly quadrant was an element of beauty, and that it was socially acceptable to achieve said beauty through such an exceedingly displeasurable method?

Yes, I have experienced the cartoonish torment of the Brazilian Bikini Wax and lived to tell about it. Please understand that I am very much a neat freak when it comes to the care and maintenance of my…lawn, as it were…and have always paid careful attention to my personal grooming. I am not (fortunately) a naturally fuzzy individual. My grandmother, for example, has never in her life needed to shave her legs, and I thank her for passing on those easy-to-manage genes to me. And as many women have, I’ve over the years experimented with various “hairstyles” and methods to achieve them, many times in conjunction with the specific likes of a particular boyfriend. I have even attempted Brazilian waxing at home, a practice I do not recommend for anyone who is not a professional contortionist with training as an aesthetician and no pain sensors in their brain. At any rate, since summer is upon us and I was due for some lawn maintenance anyway, I decided to take the plunge and get professionally pummeled.

Here’s the good news—the entire procedure takes fifteen minutes, in contrast to a miserable 60 minutes of splayed-out ripping on the bathroom floor at home. And the price tag of $50 is actually rather conservative in the litany of female spa procedures. Here’s the bad news—I think I’m now technically having an affair with my aesthetician, since she has seen me in positions that I don’t believe I’ve ever assumed with any of the above-referenced boyfriends. Allow me to summarize the protocol for my "Brazilian Bonanza", for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure as of yet:

• Step One—Walk into the treatment room with the technician (let’s call her Bonnie) and discuss the weather.
• Step 2—Drop your drawers while Bonnie heats up the wax, and walk your half-naked self over to the table, which is covered in paper just like at the doctor’s office.
• Step 3—Lay on your back, bring the soles of your feet together and attempt to respond to Bonnie’s idle chit-chat while she layers baby powder and then really warm wax over your most intimate of intimates, with a bird’s eye view into your womb.
• Step 4—Using a labor-like breathing technique Bonnie’s taught you, exhale deeply as she repeatedly rip, rip, rips out that unsightly hair growth.

Side note--have I mentioned Bonnie's trainee? Oh yes--before passing the baton to her young apprentice, she must be schooled in the art of the female wax, and I have courteously agreed (what else am I gonna do?) to allow Bonnie's pupil to observe our session. Therefore, every step is accompanied by Bonnie's commentary on how to apply the wax, which "folds" to move aside, which direction the hair grows in this particular crevice, etc. and so forth. I'm not kidding.

• Step 5—Be thankful that you study yoga as Bonnie has you lift each leg to your head in turn so that she can get to the hairs in places you didn’t even know you had.
• Step 6--Roll over on your stomach and be thankful that you’ve just showered as Bonnie explores the depths of your butt in a search for follicular rebels. Side note—as she explained to her apprentice, Bonnie uses Steps 5 and 6 instead of asking clients to get on all fours to provide access to the same areas. She finds it a degrading position that is unneccessary, and I couldn’t agree more.
• Step 7—Bonnie applies antiseptic and a little more baby powder to your now perfectly smooth woman-parts. You’re done.

I had to admire Bonnie’s efficiency—she got me in and out of those positions as quickly as she possibly could, but got every damn hair down there in the process. At first, I was perfectly mortified by the idea of her seeing me in such a state of vulnerability (I am a rather modest gal), but I felt a little better when she told me that this was her third Brazilian of the day, and it’s a normal day. So, in the final analysis, two days from now Bonnie will not remember a single thing about my womanhood, but will be busily rip, rip, ripping away at one of many other unsuspecting victims.

As I walked home from the spa, slightly humiliated, slightly sore, and deeply impressed at my tolerance to pain, I marveled that women actually go through this ordeal (and pay for it) once a month just to achieve a little extra smoothness and neatness. Wouldn’t the good old bikini line wax or shave do the trick? It’s cheaper, faster, and produces a lot less discomfort. Plus, it keeps in place some natural down that some part of me still thinks ought to be there. Is it really that much better to go Brazilian? Though it’s all still a mystery to me, my next appointment for pain with Bonnie is in four weeks.