She extended her hand with a warm, confident chuckle.
“You look nervous. Everything will be fine. C’mon back to my room.”
Everythingwillbefine.Everythingwillbefine.Everythingwillbefine. I planned this. I want this. I specifically choose her to do it with. Everything about this moment has been orchestrated, created, and wrapped in a pretty satin bow by my own doing. My will. My desire to be in this place at this time with this person. I showered and put on makeup. Made sure my hair was just so. Carefully removed the tag from the new lacy thong so it didn’t look too-too new. Put perfume on my pulse points so my nervousness would smell like Michael Kors instead of my own blend of fear and anticipation.
The light in the room dimmed.
Candles danced in time with the music.
I laid down on the warm bed, closed my lids, and breathed in.
Exhaled as she carefully put a bundle of red hair behind each ear, a few pieces escaping to tickle my face. They, too, telling me I’d be OK.
She put her face to mine.
Close.
Cold fingers stroking my face.
I jump at her touch.
“I’m sorry my hands are a little cold. Let me warm them for you.”
Her hands disappear.
Return.
More soothing than before.
“Are you ready?”
I gulp.
A prayer seems ill fitting.
“I think so”, I finally whisper.
“Ugh! I think this new waxpot, literally, hates my guts.”
What’s that…? You thought I was talking about what?? No, no, this is the my first Brazilian wax!! Sicko.
I assume I am not the only one that ladyscapes before dropping trou for relative strangers in tiny quarters. Be it waxer, lady doctor, masseuse, or tailor.*** I think she said “I do this all day long” about 20 times as I attempted to extricate the irrational fear that mine was the oddest lady part she’d ever had to separate from its hair. I didn’t have the cajones to ask if mine was the first brown cat she had to render hairless; because, as much as I love her, making jokes with a woman yielding a pot of hot wax and an industrial size tongue depressor while my heels are angled due east and far west is just tacky.
This is, indeed, the first time I had wax applied down there in preparation for The Cruise. My motivation generated by a strongly held conviction that cramping while shaving is an experience to be had only once. I’m not exceptionally tall, but I did experience some muscle tightness as I hoisted my leg in the shower on our last cruise. Apparently Nate Berkus was unavailable, so Carnival contracted the Barbie/Mini Me design team. My comment card read something like “Less towel animals, more shower room, people!” so I am looking forward to seeing the result of my scathing, yet brief, evaluation put into action. I mean, I could have gone on and on about the need for separate walking paths for those pulling wheeled oxygen tanks. I may have to chuck an old lady overboard if I get one more bruise from a blue hair on the Osteoporosis Express. The Hubster stopped e from recommending separate accommodations for Goth Teens repulsed by their father’s “Harry Chest Competition” victory. Put the pouty ass, you-know-your-ass-is-roasting-in-all0-that-black, pimples in their own place. Possibly in steerage.
The Waxer was a bit like mission control at space shuttle launch. “We’re going to start with the brow area then move to the armpits in 5-4-3…”. She tried to distract me with small talk about her friend’s shotgun wedding, but there was no forgetting that I was about to take my pants off and let some girl touch the parts my bathing suit covers. A million afterschool specials popped in my head. “Now, Susie, no one is allowed to touch you where your bathing suit covers. Those are your private parts that only you are allowed to touch. Well, until you turn 13 and then we tell you it’s dirty and wrong and that you’ll go blind.” She finished with the stuff above my waist and then just kind of looked at me with gloved hands in the air. Like my pants would spontaneously remove themselves. What? No cocktail? No dinner? THIS is why I don’t date anymore.
“Soooooo….are we doing Bikini, Brazilian, Landing Strip….”
Landing Strip? Shouldn’t it have a nicer name? Like Love Highway or Pleasure Parkway.
“Brazilian.”
“OK, then. Take it all off.”
What? While you’re just standing there? So the thong was a total waste. I kinda wanted her to be like “Ooh, I luurve those panties. They are the most elegant pair I’ve ever seen!” But I guess that would have required me to remove my underpants, pants, and jump under the towel in more than 1 move.
“So, I need you to hold your tummy right here?”
Just a chick with weight issues needs to hear. Not only do I have enough tummy that requires “holding”, but, to add insult to injury, I am tending crop down there. Which I must’ve said aloud because she replied, “Aah, I do this all day long.”
Rip, Rip.
“See? Easy, peasy. Now let’s get to that Brazilian!” as if we were skipping to grandmas to deliver fresh baked pastries. I will spare you ALL the details of the Brazilian, but I will say I was surprised at how COMPREHENSIVE it is. She was all lift-slather-rip in places I didn’t know I had.
“Okay, I need you to bring your knees to your chest and hug them.”
“What for?”
“To finish the Brazilian.”
“In my ass???”
“Not IN it. More peripherally. Don’t worry. I do this all day long.”
I must’ve heard her say ‘I do this all the live-long day’ because all I could think was ‘Oh, honey, if this is what working on the railroad is like, there’d be a lot less homeless dudes jumping on them’.
Surprisingly, I barely felt that bit. But I do have a considerable amount of junk in my trunk.
“OK, turn over on your stomach.”
“WHY? What are you gonna wax NOW??”
“Just the back of your legs.”
“Oh.”
Will I ever do this again? Probably not. But, like sleeping with a fat guy for golf tickets, it’s something I can say I did once.
*** In case you didn’t spend the 1990s obsessed with Friends, the tailor comment is a reference to one of my favorite scenes. Because I had a deep-seeded fear that I would employ the phrase “That’s how they do Brazilians!”
