Waxing Poetic

To wax or not to wax, that is the question, especially as it applies to, you know ... the beaver.

We're not talking about the large, furry, amphibious rodent with two sharp front teeth and a flattened tail — no, we're talking beaver — the glorious vagina.

There, I said it, so get over it already.

I'm no expert when it comes to the topic of feminine hygiene or fashion, but in my opinion, that whole bushy-beaver look is so passé. Yet some women in the locker room — and you all know who you are — prance around in the buck, making their business everyone else's.

Look, if you want to sport a full-out mass of hair in the nether region, that's your prerogative. I just don't want to be forced to bear witness to it.

Sure, that hair is God-given, but it commingles with one's perspiration, and well, you get my drift. Trimming the trim helps, in my opinion, as does shaving, but that can be dangerous. Nair® is better, but these options require frequent removal.

So I recommend waxing, and my preference is the Brazilian. It's clean, sexy and erotic. You can even choose to leave a little landing strip or ask for a mustache-shaped design but, as "The Girls" say, "Why bother, unless you need a reminder that you actually have hair down there?"

"The Girls" are Vada and Yuba — my Brazilian-wax consultants from Russia with love. You'll find them at Roehm's Day Spa (517.485.9820), located at 2800 East Grand River in Lansing. They're good and, with the exception of only my husband, I wouldn't trust my womanly goodness to anyone else. It's a very intimate relationship. Besides, they're medically trained and licensed.

Does it hurt?

Well, yeah, and that would be the biggest down side. At least for the first few times. But the very first time — that's the worst. On that initial pull, I bolted upright, looking at Vada in complete shock.

"Oh my God, am I bleeding?" I demanded.

"Tsk-tsk," she answered with a smirk. But I'm telling you, it felt as though the nerves in every follicle hole out from which my hairs were just ripped were on fire and twitching involuntarily, anticipating the next pull. Beads of perspiration trickled between my breasts. My armpits were damp. I wanted to grab hold of that bitch's busy little hands and break 'em.

"Wait, wait, wait!" I said instead. I just needed a moment to catch my breath ... to collect myself so my next knee-jerk reaction wasn't to deck her. I was tempted to call it quits and walk out of that hell hole, even with a half-bearded and still very sticky mess. It would grow back, right? And Goo Gone® would handily take care of the wax, I was certain. But even as these thoughts raced through my brain, I dug in and endured the pain. When Vada finished, I left puffy and swollen. And I was prepared. I had my husband take me, in case ... you know, I somehow couldn't manage to drive afterwards. He arrived with this shit-ass grin on his face. Clearly, he couldn't wait for me to drop my drawers and show him the results. In that moment, I had half a mind to deck him, too.

But later, in the privacy of our bathroom, I couldn't help but stroke it and marvel at its baby-butt softness. I admired it in the mirror from as many angles as possible. Then I pranced out of the bathroom with nary a stitch and let my husband inspect. Sure, one thing led to another, but I digress.

With each subsequent visit, the pain lessened. By about the fourth or fifth visit, the Brazilian was completely tolerable.

Recently, Kate announced that she'd like to have a go at it.

"It's worth it, but it'll hurt," I warned. And do you know what she did, that brave, brave soul? She called Yuba and asked, "When can you get me in?"

That was last night. I suggested she first call her sister, Annie, who's an ER nurse.

"See if she can anesthetize it for you," I suggested. Instead, she popped a few Ibuprofen, and into that dark madness she did go.

Alone.

A half-hour later, she calls.

"DEAR MOTHER OF GOD, THAT HURT LIKE A MOTHER-FUCKING BITCH!" She was semi-hysterical.

Did I not tell her?

Then came the empty promise: "If having children hurts worse than that, I'm not having any." (Honestly, I don't think I've every experienced a pain worse than the Brazilian — childbirth included.) ...

... followed by her recollection of the event's most memorable moments: "Every muscle in my body was clenched so tightly," and "... when she tweezed the teeny tiny strays, oh my God!" She crossed her eyes as if she was about to go comatose. ...

... and finally, the denouement: "Yuba was so nice and gentle, I really liked her a lot."

Kate's boyfriend, Tony, promised, "If they hurt you, I'll kiss it and make it all better." Kate thought he needed to experience it for himself in order to truly appreciate her pain — I know, because that was my exact sentiment toward Dane when I was first initiated into the Brazilian way.

But a few beers and a lemon drop later, and Kate was on her way home to recuperate. I recommended a cold pack.

I'd send her flowers and a get-well-soon card, but she'll be up and about early in the morning, petting herself and making sure it's still baby soft and bare. Then, in about a month — maybe two — she'll turn around and go right back in for more.

In the meantime, I can't wait to down a couple more beers and throw back another lemon drop. What are friends for, after all?


Brazilians are $45 at Roehm's. Also available at Douglas J Institute in East Lansing for $60 at 517.349.5271.