A popular joke in my act is about my first-ever Brazilian wax being done by A Very Angry Russian Woman who – as she’s ripping off the strips of cloth and my dignity – says to me: “In my country, I was gynecologist.” She didn’t really say that but humor is born out of pain. And getting a Brazilian wax was an excruciating and yet instructive experience.
I learned that the hair follicles of my nether region are directly connected to the tear ducts in my eyes, which explains all the crying. I learned that a Brazilian wax is not an event that can nor should be live tweeted. Well at least I couldn’t do it. Apparently, I can’t scream in under 140 characters. I now have a wary respect for Brazilian women. They are clearly made of stronger, sterner, and crazier stuff than I. It would also explain why the United States hasn’t invaded Brazil. If they can inflict that much pain upon themselves, what would they do to an enemy?
I vaguely wonder if this practice is native to Brazil at all or is there some connection to the Nazi war criminals that fled there from Germany after World War II.
Why did I get a Brazilian wax in the first place? Well naturally I was always curious, as one would be about say giving birth, being hit by a car, or leaping from a tall building. I popped into a random salon one day for a mani-pedi (manicure and pedicure). They were running a special, I was feeling adventurous, and the next thing you know, I have a new joke in my act. I wish I could say this was a one-and-done experience but nay, Dear Friends. I did it thrice more. For convenience, I went the same shop that does my eyebrows, but that last time was an epiphany: Love me. Love my pubes.
The problem now is that every time I go to the shop My Eye Brow Threading Lady asks me if I’m there for brows, Brazilian, or both. To her credit she doesn’t ask this question out loud revealing my dumb-assery to the shop at large. She’s very subtle. She quickly flicks her gaze up to my brows, down to my crotch, and then back to me with an inquiring cock of her eyebrow. Nicely done.
I quickly scurry to her chair thus letting her know that it’s just my eyebrows. But the last several times I’ve done this I can see that it bothers her. She whispers to me that the longer I let the hair grow, the more painful the wax will be. I can’t even conceive of what worse would feel like but I am touched by her obvious concern that I’m letting things go all to hell down there.
But at least she has the courtesy to ask. I suspect that if I ever went back to the salon of The Angry Russian Woman, I’d be getting a Brazilian wax and perhaps a pap smear whether I wanted one or not. For now I’ll continue to pass. I might change my mind when the bad memories fade, my skin cells regenerate, and bikini weather returns. But in the meantime, winter is coming and a girl can use all the extra covering she can get.
And that, My Friends, is no joke.
