Im a fiend for hair,nails,massages and facials.I am not, however, a waxing fiend. Im the Goldilocks of beauty, just looking for my perfect fit. In my defense, its part of my job: I try new salons, new treatments and new stylists with relative ease for research purposes. I also usually don't pay attention to whos doing my hair. Or my nails. Or my massage. In fact, after the initial polite greeting, introduction and what Im looking for out of the treatment, I like to plug my headphones into my ears, turn on some Biebs and just ignore whats happening around me. I view salon time as me time. During that precious half hour, short-lived as it may be, I like to be in my own headandrelax with music or an audiobook. I dont feel the need to make small talk and most technicians respect that. Im never rude, I just dont see the point of chit-chatting when Im off-duty. Theres only one beauty professional I do talk to: my bikini waxer. Hey, girl! Ive been going to the same place for years, so she and I are basically soul sisters. I know all about her life and she knows all about mine. She also happens to know what my vagina looks like, so shes part of a very exclusive club. Lying spread-eagle on a bunch of paper, it gets real. I need to fill the air with voices, ambient noise, or anything outside the horrific silence of hair being ripped from my coochfollicles. Seriously, the waxing table isthe new therapy couch.
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My waxer saw me through a breakup. The day after I moved out ofmy ex-boyfriends apartment, I had an appointment to get aBrazilian.
Seeing as the onlyalternative was staying home and feelingmiserable, I actually pulled myself and myvag (three weeks deep in stubble) out of bed and to the salon.Like a mystical vagina whisperer, she already knew something was wrong. What did he do? she asked as I took my pants off. I planted my naked ass on the table, talking all the while. We broke up and he sucks and hes a terrible person and " I went on. The pain of becoming bald down there overtook my misery post-dumping. Incidentally, that session was the first time I didnt get an ingrown hair post-wax. It was a sign that my cooch was meant for better, bigger (ahem) things.
Once, she wonderedwhat I'd eaten that day. Pro tip: When someone who is literally applying wax to yourass crack asks what you ate for lunch, your bum probably smells like the inside of a Chipotle bathroom after the lunch rush. To be fair, that day, I had a Dos Toros burrito bowl with extra cheese. I am also pretty lactose intolerant, so that might've not been the greatest decision I ever made. Dropping trou minutes later? Also not been the best idea.
She talks sh*tabout other clients to me. My waxer loves to talk about this one lady who comes in for a Brazilian every other Tuesday. Shes at least 70 and "one of those rich Upper East Side ladies, you know who Im talking about." This womanalso apparently loves to talk about all the tantric sex she has with her lover, a man in his 30s whoworks in finance.She waxes that woman's lovers eyebrows, and he reportedly asked for her number once. It goes to show, you never know what theyre doing on the side, she swore. Ladies, theres no drama like waxing drama.
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She shuts me down when I'm making small talk. One time, when she and I first became, uh, waxing friends (if thats not a thing, its about to be) I thought it might be polite to make small talk. As she was looking at my cooch, I kind of wanted to at least know if she was having a good day. Its so nice out, isnt it? I asked, awkwardly. She didnt look up from the pot of molten wax. I dont know, it looked pretty hairy from over here, she offered. Note to self: Every time you want to talk, don't. Read more: http://elitedaily.com/women/conversations-with-my-waxer/1384383/ 4 Weirdly Personal Conversations I've Had With My Brazilian Waxer
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