Okay. It’s been a while. I am preparing for the Danskin triathlon, so my recent training regimen requires that I don a swimming suit. Let’s face it. There’s only so much you can “tuck away”, particularly for us brunettes. I had a nail appointment this afternoon, and I entered the salon feeling in a somewhat spunky mood. I selected a glossy blue polish for my toes, rather than my typical red or pink. At this point, I am feeling so out there. I think, “hmmm … while I’m here”… This was my first mistake. As my nail technician files, I say, “Hey Jenny … got time for a bikini wax?” Yes! She does. So after the fingernails, but before the toes, we enter her lair. This is always slightly uncomfortable. She hands me this small package, and tells me to change. She leaves. I shake out the thing, and it’s a small postage stamp of fabric with a coil of elastic strung from it. Sort of like a thong for Barbie. Well … alright. So I put it on, lie down, and cover myself with the sheet she also provided.
The employees of this particular establishment are Vietnamese, so most of the time I can’t understand what the heck they’re saying. They giggle a lot. And that’s when they’re only working on people’s nails. So two of them come in to the room, wielding scissors. What the hell?! They yank off the sheet and go to town. They are doing their very best Edward Scissorhands impersonation, and I can only hope they’re not crafting a topiary down there. I give Jenny a horror-struck look, and she says (with her heavy Vietnamese accent), “Need haircut first.” Dear God. I remind them, “bikini wax only, yes?”. They smile, nod, and giggle. The waxing starts. It’s a tag team … wax, press, rip. Ouch. Wax, press, rip. Ouch. They’re getting mighty close to my nether regions, so I mention again, “bikini wax only, yes?”. They smile, nod, and giggle. Crap. Do they understand what I’m saying?! Wax, press, rip. OUCH!! Jesus, I have never worn a bikini that requires that much exposure. Where do they think I’m from?! Brazil??? “BIKINI WAX ONLY, YES?”. But by now, it’s far too late. Whatever is going to happen, has happened. I lay my head back in resignation as they wax, press, rip, OUCH! needle tweeze, OUCH!
Finally, they’re done. They leave the torture chamber, and I wearily rise to my feet and gaze in to the mirror. Oh, no. This is not good. I am left with a prepubescent patch of turf approximately the size of a quarter. Made “The Landing Strip” look like a verdant forest. But whaddya do? I can’t exactly glue it back on. Sigh …
So I dress and walk out of the room feeling like I either need to buy the ladies dinner, or smoke a cigarette. Next time, my attire will include granny pants and a chastity belt.