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Pull My Hair

26 Aug

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In preparation for an upcoming trip to the Oregon coast, where I probably have a greater chance of being eaten by a shark than getting a tan, I decided to subject myself (again) to the delights of having my pubic hair ripped out forcefully by some poor woman who, as far as I can tell, has the shittiest (though, hopefully not literally), job in the whole world.

I’ve decided to coin the term Vaginal Bush Obliteration because, really though, “Bikini Wax” is way too happy and cheery for what’s being done down there.

I hear the word “bikini’ and I think: cute, fashionable, little and yellow, maybe some polka dots.

I hear the word “wax” and I think: well, okay, I think of wax.

But still. Doesn’t Vaginal Bush Obliteration just sound more appropriate given the activities and the pain, dear sweet baby Jesus the PAIN, you will go through during said activities?

Okay, now that we’ve got the semantics under control, my first experience with ze wax (sorry, occasionally I accidentally slip in to what little French I know, which really is just adding z’s on the end of words so I sound like a poor man’s Pepe LePew.) was a few months ago at the Gene Juarez up in Bellevue. This time I headed to my normal salon (GJ in Tacoma) and what a difference a salon makes!

Besides being home to my fabulous hair stylist and colorist, I will never get my pubic hairs forcefully ripped out of my skin anywhere else! (How often do you get to make that kind of statement, huh?) There were two big differences between salons/experiences:

(1) This time I got super cool paper underwear to wear so my Little Mama wasn’t hanging out there for all (okay, it was only one other person besides myself) to see.

Now you might guess from this blog that I don’t have much dignity and well, you’d be right. But I do have some small, insignificant portion of dignity, as much as one could possibly have after blogging about Pooping Problems, Colonscopies and a Whole Lot of Vaginas (this post included), that I cling to like a fucking life preserver.

That whisper thin piece of paper was my life preserver for ten minutes.

(2) The waxer/waxing hygenist/waxologist put POWDER on me before ripping out. Sweet Hair Ripping Gods, why did the previous waxer not use powder?! It made a huge difference in the experience…

But don’t get me wrong ladies. It hurt.

It hurt a lot.

I would say that it hurt less than the first time, but still enough to kick the breath right out of you. Even when the lady (“stylist” just sounds wrong. I don’t want my nether regions “styled”.) asked if I wanted a little more done (which in all honestly I did), I couldn’t bring myself to grant permission while grinding my teeth through the pain and I totally pussied out.

Ha. Ha. Get it?

Song title: Pull My Hair by Ying Yang Twins