Finding a skilled waxer for my intimate areas has proven to be a more daunting task than selecting a gynecologist. I don’t feel awkward about doctors examining my private parts; that’s a professional setting. Sure, there’s some uncomfortable poking with metallic tools while a nurse observes, but at least I’m draped in a paper gown. My doctor even covers my legs with a paper towel-sized sheet and creates a little curtain to shield us both, like some kind of Wizard of the Vagina. This arrangement is perfect because I can avoid analyzing his expressions, whether he’s smirking, smiling, or looking a bit frightened by the sight of my anatomy. Once, he even asked if he could bring in interns to observe, and I cheerfully replied, “Sure! The more, the merrier!” That’s how relaxed I am about it.
But the experience of going to a waxer is entirely different. Without the white coat, stethoscope, and medical credentials, the atmosphere shifts from clinical to more intimate when you find yourself on a table, completely exposed from the waist down, awaiting someone in casual attire to start working on your most private areas. Even if they’re clad in pink scrubs, it’s hard to maintain the illusion of a medical environment. I could easily purchase scrubs from a nearby store, but that doesn’t qualify me to perform a medical procedure.
Finding a waxer who instills comfort and trust is crucial. After a few attempts with various professionals, I finally discovered one whom I adored. The pain was minimal, our conversations were enjoyable, and the usual awkwardness faded away in the flow of our engaging dialogue.
Then came the dreaded news: she had accepted a new position—a better job that didn’t involve examining my vagina. She was transitioning to hairstyling and leaving the South for the North. It felt like the end of a relationship, and I was once again thrust into the dating world of waxers, where every new “date” included a close-up view of my crotch. Essentially, I went through a breakup and became a waxer’s fling.
Last week, I visited what would be my third rebound waxer, and this one was notably quiet—so quiet that not a single word passed between us. The room lacked any music, leaving me exposed, pantsless, and in an eerily silent environment where you could hear a hair fall. This level of silence is intolerable for me; I thrive on chatter, humor, laughter, and the occasional exclamatory outburst as the wax is torn from my skin. I prefer to express my discomfort with colorful phrases like “Sweet Baby Jesus on a Tilt-a-Whirl” or “Holy Ballsack!” This waxer, however, was not having any of that.
To make matters worse, she had hair that cascaded down her back—think Crystal Gayle or a Duggar family member. When someone with long hair is waxing your intimate areas, their hair inevitably dangles into the vicinity. Just as I was beginning to entertain a spontaneous lesbian fantasy, dread struck when I realized her hair might end up in the wax, potentially leading to an embarrassing and sticky entanglement. What happens if I find myself permanently stuck to another woman during such an intimate procedure? What kind of life would that entail? What job prospects would I have, aside from joining some bizarre performance art duo?
Throughout this silence, I found myself overthinking every detail. Normally, when faced with a stranger examining my most private area, the goal is to distract myself. I missed my previous waxer, the one who shared laughs and played cheesy ’70s love songs that made the experience enjoyable. Without her humor and conversation, I was left with only the realization that my pubic hair was being ripped out at the follicle.
As I lay there looking at the ceiling, desperately wishing for this to end, I spotted a water stain shaped suspiciously like a vagina. I chuckled and made a comment, but there was no reaction from her—just more awkward silence. My previous waxer would’ve laughed and understood my sense of humor. She was a rare gem who made the experience bearable.
If anyone encounters my former waxer, please let her know I’m looking for her. I shouldn’t be hard to find; I’ll be the one resembling a chia pet in a bikini. There’s a chance you might see me on a reality show about cryptids, with my excessive body hair making me a prime candidate for an Animal Planet investigation. If I’m lounging by the pool and spot someone with binoculars and a net, I’ll know they’re after me.
As a child, I dreamed of being on television, but I imagined performances that showcased my singing and humor—not a show centered around my unkempt pubic hair. Little girls have many dreams, but this one is likely not among them.
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Summary:
Finding a good waxer is a challenging endeavor that can feel more daunting than choosing a gynecologist. The author reflects on the discomfort of seeking a new waxer after losing a favorite, sharing humorous anecdotes about the awkwardness of intimate grooming and the importance of connection and communication during such a personal experience.