Today call me Brazilian; or at least I want to be. And I’m not referring to a change in nationality or even a visit to South America. I’m talking about the possibility of a total below-the-border deforestation.
Yes, to keep life interesting, I’ve been on the hunt for a “Hooray! It’s Summer!” experiment. And since you all seemed split on the Botox, I came up with something perhaps less controversial.
(but still expensive, painful and temporary. because hooray it’s summer.)
I figure waxing can’t possibly be as disastrous as, let’s say, accidentally bleaching your nether-regions neon yellow before a camping trip where you’re forced to take communal showers with your boyfriend’s mother and sisters for eight days.
Because THAT would be awkward. I’m guessing.
(So thank you, God’s of Clairol for not letting something like that happen to me. Twice.)
In any case, I’ve had more than twenty years to heal from any peroxide-based mishaps I may or may not have inflicted upon myself.
I’ve also had over a decade to live down the night of December 31st, 1999; when I may or may not have decided to buy my first pair of thong underwear and get friendly with my Lady Schick. You know. In case Y2K turned out to be real and New Year’s Eve was, let’s say, it.
I asked myself, “Y not?”
I got my answer later that night after putting the kids to bed. There was wine. Maybe a fireplace. And oh yeah there was me. I was prepared for my husband to be surprised. I mean, after all. Thong underwear?
Still, I was unprepared to discover I appeared more prepubescent than provocative.
“You look young,” he said. “And not in a good way.”
Then he may or may not have considered blinding himself like, let’s say, good old Oedipus.
(To make matters worse, not one of our computers froze up and the world didn’t end and we had all this bottled water and too many cans of baked beans in the garage.)
These stories took place long ago (especially Oedipus); and I’ve since been informed by those in the know (an underused adjectival phrase due to obnoxiousness) that many young women of today (as opposed to, let’s say, ancient Greece) prefer to be totally unadorned; and to that end these ladies seek grooming statuses like “The Hollywood” which implies complete bareness; or “The Landing Strip” which I imagine refers to the joy one feels when her plane arrives safely at the airport instead of, let’s say, bursting into flames.
As with all good things, there’s a rub. So to speak.
And with regards to The Brazilian, my rub is this:
I Googled it.
And then my eyes watered over words and phrases and complete sentences like the following:
…ingrown hairs…regular exfoliation…glycolic acid scrub…hard wax can be less painful…take two Advil…rip…scream…repeat every two weeks…and (my personal favorite) you may be asked to hold the skin taut…
Oh, Holy Hair Follicle.
I take two Advil every morning Just Because. If there’s ripping, screaming, or taut-skin holding? Mama’s gonna need an epidural.
Still. I can’t help wondering about these hairless young ladies of today. Are they really so very strong? I must admit, nothing about Paris Hilton strikes me as “built for the suffering.”
So this is where you come in, my (hopefully immodest) friends:
To wax or not to wax? That is the question.
I need some feedback and advice; maybe a swift kick in the arse;
And potentially a few prescription painkillers.