I decided this week to go and get a full wax. This means wipe the slate clean, no hair, very bare. I’ve done this before…it was almost two years ago. You know how you forget about the pain of childbirth so you keep reproducing? Yep, this is the hair and wax equivalent.
Entering the waxing room, I was still in a good mood, until I had to lay on the table with my legs replicating a butterflied pork chop. The panic started to set in.
The first strip was ripped off and I clenched my teeth and cursed to myself. The second strip brought out the inner swears and the biting of the lip. “Oh, next time, just take some Ibuprofen beforehand and the pain won’t be so bad.” Gee, thanks…now you tell me.
She progressed and became “more involved” with every wax swipe and strip rip. I felt like my southern hemisphere was being peeled off of my body and thrown in the trash. She told me to breathe when all I wanted to do was scream and beg for mercy.
The entire time I kept thinking why on earth do us women do this to ourselves? Why the torture so we can look good where…in the dark?
The waxing was over and all I could think about was my throbbing privates and how I can’t wait to go home and self-medicate. As I hobbled to the front desk she thanked me and asked when I would like to schedule the next appointment. Hmmm….is when hell freezes over soon enough?
Confused Woman! 
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