Finding a trustworthy aesthetician for personal grooming can be more challenging than selecting a gynecologist. I’ve never felt uneasy about medical professionals examining my intimate areas; it’s a clinical experience. Sure, instruments are involved, and there’s a nurse observing, but at least I get to wear a paper gown. My doctor even covers my legs with a paper sheet, creating a little curtain like he’s some kind of Wizard of the Vagina. This setup is great because it allows me to avoid scrutinizing his expressions—whether he’s smirking, frowning, or looking genuinely terrified of my anatomy.
Once, he asked if he could bring in some interns for a closer look, and I casually replied, “Sure! The more, the merrier!” That’s how nonchalant I am about the whole situation.
However, visiting a wax specialist is an entirely different experience. Without the white coat, stethoscope, or prestigious degrees, the atmosphere shifts from clinical to something resembling a peep show. You find yourself lying there, exposed from the waist down, while someone in casual attire prepares to get personal. Even if they wear scrubs, I’m not fooled; I know where to buy scrubs nearby, but that doesn’t qualify me to perform a medical procedure.
So, finding someone who instills comfort and trust is essential. After several attempts, I finally landed a fantastic waxer. The pain was minimal, the conversation was enjoyable, and the awkwardness disappeared as we chatted away, making the experience feel like a breeze.
But then came the dreaded news: she had accepted another position—one that thankfully didn’t involve my private parts. She was transitioning to hairstyling and relocating. It felt like a breakup; I was back to “dating” again, where every first encounter involved a close-up of my crotch. Essentially, I went through a divorce and became a free agent in the waxing world.
Last week, I tried my third attempt at finding another suitable waxer. This new lady was particularly quiet. As in, there was zero conversation and no music playing. I lay there, pantsless, in an eerily silent room where you could hear a single hair drop. This kind of silence is unacceptable to me. I thrive on conversation, humor, and even singing during these moments—especially when I’m about to endure some rather painful waxing. (I have a collection of colorful exclamations I like to use, like Sweet Baby Jesus on a Tilt-a-Whirl and Holy Ballsack.)
But this new waxer wasn’t having any of it. To make matters worse, her hair was long—think Crystal Gayle or Cher in the ’60s. When someone with long hair is working in such close proximity, it inevitably dangles into the area. Just as I begin to embrace a new fantasy, I panic at the thought of her hair getting mixed in with the wax, potentially sticking us together in an awkward predicament for all eternity. What do you do when you’re inexplicably attached to another woman in such a personal way? The mind races with questions.
All of this occurred in a dead-silent room, causing me to overanalyze every detail. Typically, when a stranger is in such close quarters with your body, you don’t want to dwell on it too much—you crave distractions. I found myself missing my old waxer more than ever, reminiscing about our lighthearted conversations and the way we’d both belt out cheesy ’70s love songs during our sessions.
As I lay there, staring at a ceiling water stain that resembled a vagina, I couldn’t help but laugh and comment aloud. Yet, there was no response. No laughter. Just more awkward silence. I knew my previous waxer would have found the humor in that stain. She understood me and appreciated my jokes. Plus, she had short hair—definitely not something that would get anywhere near my lady bits.
I miss my old waxer terribly. If anyone knows her whereabouts, please send her my way. I’ll be the one resembling someone smuggling a Chia pet in her pants or appearing on an episode of Finding Bigfoot due to my burgeoning body hair.
As a child, I dreamed of being on television, imagining grand performances. I never anticipated that my debut would revolve around my unkempt intimate areas. Little girls have many dreams; I just hope that isn’t one of them.
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In summary, the search for a quality waxer is a journey filled with ups and downs, awkward moments, and the longing for the comfort of familiarity.