“I’ve never done this before….just so you know….so..uh…I’m a little nervous…”

“I ahways get fust time peepoe.  Is fine – just take off pats”

This shit is so ON.  It’s too late to change my mind, and Rose is so nice and welcoming with her cute little self. Deep breath…okay, I’m fine.

(claps hands) Let’s do the damn thing!

Walk into the back room where there is a single table next to a cart with various methods of torture in all colors. Jesus, this is not going to be pleasant.

Pants off. Fold ‘em up, place ‘em in the corner.  Undies off – tuck those puppies into a pocket.  Lie down on the table, fold hands over tummy, wait for the impending doom.

Side note: I’m not sure why I’ve never gotten into the expected beauty routine my peers have adopted, but I assume it is the same reasoning assigned to still not giving up my daily wardrobe of Vans, jeans, and t-shirt. Am I living in perpetual arrested development? Could be. Laziness? Probably.

Sporadically at most, I will become curious enough about what most women practice on the reg to look into it for myself. I figure maybe my opinion has changed about some of these things by simply aging – kind of like my opinion about tomatoes. But I keep getting off subject.

Rose walks in after I’ve been lying there a few minutes in all of my pant-less glory, and I’m already so beyond mortified, all I can do is stare a hole in the ceiling.

But I can’t even look at her.

What can she possibly be thinking right now?

*People, I don’t care who/how hot/gender/body type you are; EVERYONE looks regoddamndiculous in just a t-shirt, and socks*

Rose is a pro though, and jumps right into the assessment of the job in front of her. She looks at me, looks at my lady parts, looks at me.

“You not alwite, huh?”

“Oh no, no, I’m good!  Fine, haha, you know, uh, I’m fine”

“No, I mean, you not all Caucasian.  You sometheeng mixed in”

“OH!  Haha, oh yeah…sorry…” (I’m an utter asshole)

Folks, my name is Danyela Gimeno. You practically become Luigi when you say it without even meaning to; ah cumma looka at this-a pizza pie, eh! So, no, I’m not all white. And yes, there’s a difference between my lady hair and Sally St.WASP’s from Connecticut.

Time to begin.

Wax on.  Dear lord. Riiiiiiip. OH SHIT.  (exhales) (chuckles uncomfortably)

“You okay miiiss?”

“Oh yeah Rose, juuust great”

She’s not dumb, my sweet Rose, and she gets my sarcasm and starts laughing. Rose is good people.

A few more wax-ons, rip-offs, and I am sweating so much it has pooled beneath my back. I keep thinking it would get a bit easier as it progressed, but that isn’t the case. This fucking hurts.  There was no getting numb to it, psyching myself out, focusing beyond the pain. I was going to have to endure every last strip.

At this point Rose had given me a towel to pull between my hands, and may as well have offered me moonshine or whiskey and a leather strap to bite.  I mean, I’m no whiney bitch, but when you’re pulling hairs out of the most sensitive of areas on your body, you let me know how cool you are, mkay?

“You have much hair miiiss”

“Mmmhmm…Christ…”

 

Rose just giggles, which makes me laugh, too.  I officially love/hate this woman.

To add insult to literal injury, Rose happens to be extremely thorough. So much so, she had one of those large lit magnifying glasses up to my hoo-haa and tweezers searching for errant hairs. She’s poking around, unfolding things; really searching for these little bastards, so naturally I decide now is the time to mention the weather.

This lady has obviously dealt with some high maintenance New York bitches who would have been furious to leave with any single evidence of puberty, so I quickly informed her that I was not one of these women, hoping she would ease up a bit.

-She may have, but who the hell knows, for my entire nether region was sobbing.-

“Okee, you jus going to row over like thees”

??????

“Vewy good – now you hode thees tight. Hode open”

Oh my dear sweet Jesus, she can’t be serious.

I start to panic, as there is no possibility of running away. I’m too weak.

1) I am without pants 2) I am already afraid of how much my walking will be affected by this little experiment of mine, so I’m assuming running will be damn near impossible 3) She’s got hot wax.

I am totally powerless.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod…

I roll over, hold open my butt cheeks, shove my face in the pillow, hold my breath.

***

Over an hour and $80 later (this includes a $30 tip; hey, she EARNED it) I waddle away with a few looming questions.

This woman does this all day, everyday, for a living. Has for the last 2 decades. What compels someone to do this? I mean, I’m pretty sure she has seen some shit over the years. How is it that a person, a woman no less, can inflict such pain on another woman, and then turn around expecting money for it? Even more perplexing is how/why tons and tons of women willingly do this on a regular basis?

And finally; did I really have hair in the crack of my ass??  How long have I been living a lie? I mean, I don’t wipe my ass with my bare hand, so I guess it could go unnoticed a lot longer than one would think.

I spent the rest of the day running to the bathroom to look at my poor, purple, naked nu-nu and shaking my head in disgust. She’s not cute bald. Not cute one bit.

She’s hiding her face in shame and won’t speak to me. I’m looking forward to the wrath she’ll surely bestow in the form of ingrown hairs…

I accepted a renewed appreciation for my razor that day and make the solemn promise to never do this to her again.