Finding a skilled lady groomer is, let’s be honest, trickier than picking a gynecologist. I can handle medical professionals examining my private parts because it feels clinical. Sure, there are sharp metal instruments involved, and a nurse might be watching from the corner, but at least I’m draped in a paper gown. My doctor even uses a paper-sized sheet to create a curtain, making him feel like the Wizard of Vag. Thanks to that, I can avoid staring at his reactions, which often leaves me wondering why he’s smirking or looking like he’s just seen a ghost. One time, he even asked if he could bring in some interns to observe, and I casually replied, “Sure! The more, the merrier!”
But stepping into the world of waxing? That’s a whole different ballgame. The clinical atmosphere vanishes quickly when you find yourself on a table, bare from the waist down, with someone in jeans and a t-shirt preparing to invade your privacy. Even if they sport those pink scrubs, I’m not fooled into thinking I’m in a medical setting. I could easily buy my own scrubs from the store, but that doesn’t mean I should be performing surgeries.
So, it’s crucial to find someone who puts you at ease. After trying out several groomers, I finally discovered one I adored. The pain was minimal, the conversation flowed effortlessly, and the awkwardness faded into the background as we chatted away, completely engrossed in our banter while she tended to my personal grooming.
Then came the dreaded news: she was moving on to a better job—one that didn’t involve intimate examinations. She was off to become a hairstylist and relocating to a different part of town. I felt like I was going through a breakup and had to start the “dating” process all over again, except this time it included letting someone get up close and personal with my private areas. So, basically, I went through a divorce and turned into a vagabond of the waxing world.
Last week, I tried my third “rebound” waxer in this drawn-out saga. This new lady was incredibly quiet—like, not a single word was spoken during the entire session. No music, nothing. There I was, exposed and vulnerable, in a silence so thick that you could hear a single hair fall. I thrive on chit-chat; I love telling jokes, sharing laughs, and even throwing in some colorful exclamations as the wax cruelly yanked my hair. (Sweet Baby Jesus on a Tilt-a-Whirl and Holy Cannoli are some of my favorites!)
But this girl wasn’t having any of it. Plus, she had long hair—think Crystal Gayle meets ’60s Cher. When someone with long hair is waxing your delicate areas, guess what? Their hair tends to dangle in places it shouldn’t. Suddenly, I felt a bit awkward, like I was in a peculiar lesbian fantasy. To cope with the bizarre vibes, I closed my eyes and pictured a long-haired dude down there, but all I could conjure were images of Fabio and Steven Tyler—which made me want to gag. Just as I started to accept this unexpected twist in my fantasies, I realized her hair might get caught in the wax, leaving us both in an eternally awkward situation. What does one do when they have a fellow woman permanently attached to their lady bits?
During all this, the silence was deafening, and I couldn’t help but think of my previous waxer. I missed our playful exchanges, the cheesy ’70s love songs that filled the room, and the overall distraction from the sheer pain of the experience. As I stared at the ceiling, hoping for this to end, I noticed a water stain that resembled a vagina. I couldn’t help but laugh and made a comment about it, but my humor fell flat in the silence. No laughter, just an eerie stillness.
My former waxer, who understood me and my humor, would have found it hilarious. I miss her terribly. If you happen to see her, please let her know I’m on the lookout. I shouldn’t be hard to spot—I’ll be the one who appears to be hiding a chia pet in her bikini bottom, or maybe you’ll catch me on an episode of Finding Bigfoot with all my excess body hair. I’ve got big feet, am tall, and without a waxer, I might just turn into a candidate for an Animal Planet documentary. If I’m lounging by the pool one day and see someone with binoculars and a net, I’ll know they’re onto me.
When I was younger, I always envisioned being a star on TV, perhaps in a comedic show like Annie or The Carol Burnett Show—something that showcased my talent for humor and singing. I never thought my claim to fame would revolve around my hairy situation. Little girls have many dreams, but this is probably not one of them… or at least, I hope not.
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Summary: Finding a good lady groomer can be more challenging than choosing a gynecologist, as the experience often lacks the clinical comfort of a doctor’s visit. The author humorously recounts her quest to find a reliable groomer, which leads to amusing and awkward encounters. Ultimately, she longs for the connection and laughter she shared with her previous waxer, while navigating the trials of intimacy in a comedic fashion.