Much like this blogger who’s BlogSecret secret ended up on Alexa’s blog, I was unaware of all my grooming options ‘down there’ until my sophomore year of college. My roommate, D, was a die-hard waxer; we’re talking eyebrows, upper lip, arm pits, stomach–the whole shebang. It seemed a little overkill to me, especially when she’d come back, bleeding from the armpits. Sure, they were hair-free and surprisingly smooth, but it didn’t seem like a fair trade.
We were living at the beach, though, and I was a bit envious that she never had to bother with the quick ‘touch ups’ my other roommate and I scrambled to attend to before putting on our bikinis.
After much coaxing, I finally broke down and made an appointment with my roommate and her waxer, who I’ll call Helga, not because that is her name but because typing it makes me giggle.
The day of reckoning finally arrived; D and I had back-to-back appointments with Helga. We got to the spa a couple of minutes early. I was nervously pretending to read magazines as D attempted to reassure me that it’s not that bad, I won’t have to come back for another 45 days, blah blah blah. Finally Helga came out, a short, willowy woman with a faint Eastern European accent and led us back into a room.
It was a small room, painted a pale peach color, with a candle burning in one corner and soft celtic music playing. In the middle of the room was a padded table, much like you’d find at a doctors office, with a line of butcher paper rolled down the middle. To one side of the table was a small tray with what looked like a mini-rice cooker sitting on top of it, surrounded by wooden popsicle sticks, cotton balls, and various bottles of lotions and ointments. Helga asked which of us was going first, and I pointed to D.
D and I had decided that I would stay in the room for her appointment. Apparently this is fairly common because there was a chair already set up in the corner. Unfortunately (or fortunately, I guess) the table and the chair were situated so as to give me a front row seat to the action taking place on the small strip of butcher paper.
Helga asked D to take off as much clothes as she felt comfortable with, and I was surprised to see D strip down, but leave her underwear on. D isn’t really a modest person, and this small, surprising bit of modesty made her look vulnerable. My stomach started doing somersaults*.
Helga started with D’s upper lip, then moved on to her armpits. Helga kept up a light banter the whole time, talking about her pet parrot and how her volleyball team did in their tournament last weekend. Tears were pooling in D’s eyes as the hair was ripped from her armpits. I must have looked worried.
“Don’t worry, Sarah, my armpits are the worst part,” she told me.
Finally, D’s va-jay-jay was the only area left. Helga asked if D wanted a simple bikini wax, or a Brazilian wax. D laughed and agreed to go whole hog–the Brazilian.
Helga took out what looked like a ponytail elastic and knotted D’s underwear in such a way as to give her pretty much full access to the area in question. D flinched and whimpered as Helga relentlessly pulled strip after wax-and-pube-covered strip of linen from her womanly parts. Helga left no stone unturned in her quest for pubic hair. I couldn’t look away. I honestly had no idea how ugly a vagina was until I watched Helga hunt down every last hair D had from her belly button to her anus. I was having some serious second thoughts. Legs were lifted, folds of skin were parted; it was like some weird ballet gone horribly, horribly wrong as Helga would tap D’s leg to position her so as to best access D’s nether regions.
Then, it was my turn. D hopped down from the table and wiped the tears from her eyes. “It’s really not so bad,” she offered half-heartedly as Helga changed the butcher paper.
I decided to make my humiliation complete, and stripped completely from the waist down. No weird ponytail elastic thong for me! I’d witnessed the thoroughness of Helga’s search for pubes and figured modesty had no place in this room.
Keep in mind, I had no idea what to expect coming in to this appointment. From the day D made the appointment, I’d completely abandoned any attempts at trimming or landscaping my lady parts. I was laid out on the table, exposed to the world, looking like a 70’s porn star.
Helga’s eyes scanned the area in question, then flicked quickly up to my face. She pulled out a tiny pair of scissors.
“I’ll just cut some of this back before we start,” she breezed.
I could have died of humiliation. I thought I was doing the right thing, thinking it would be easier if there were more hair to take hold of, so to speak.
“I should have told you to trim, Sarah, I’m sorry,” D said quietly. My face was so red. I felt like yelling out, Wedding Singer-style, “Information that you could have brought to my attention YESTERDAY!”
Instead, I lay there, wallowing in my humiliation as Helga snipped at my pubes. This was a bad idea, I was thinking.
Finally, it was time for the wax. I agreed to the Brazilian, thinking there was no point in half-assing it at this point. As Helga spread on the first application of the warm wax, I thought to myself that it felt oddly pleasant. Like a warm bath, but just for my privates. Then she applied the linen strip and I steeled myself for the pain.
“So, do you have a boyfriend?” she asked as she rubbed the linen into the wax.
“Um, no,” I replied. No one to admire your handiwork, I thought to myself.
She quickly pulled the strip off, and then looked at me with horror.
“What? What happened?” I asked.
“I’m so sorry,” she stammered, “I didn’t mean to take so much off at once.” I was aghast. I had hardly felt anything.
“Damn, Sarah, it’s like your hair just jumped off of your body!” D exclaimed.
With the knowledge that the worst was over and this wasn’t actually going to hurt, I could focus more intently on the humiliation I was enduring. Helga found creases and crevices that even I wasn’t aware of. I should have felt violated, but really I felt like I was molesting her. When she motioned for me to lift my legs up to give her a clear shot at my hiney, I prayed desperately that I wouldn’t fart. D was still in shock at how easily my hair had separated itself from my body, and offered nothing by way of distraction.
Finally, it was over, and I was $65 poorer, plus the $20 tip I felt obligated to leave Helga. I got home and studied my naked woman parts in the mirror. Rather than feeling sexy, I felt dirty. I looked like I had a 10 year old’s vagina.
*I spelled this word right on the FIRST TRY! Go me…