A Bourgeious Brazilian Attempt

In the hopes of putting a lil "spring in my step", I waxed my chocha. There is no new man in my life. No bikini clad vacation in my calendar. Hell, not even an introductory price. After endless episodes of Sex and the City, articles in Marie Claire, and Gisele (my BFF), I heard that a Brazilian wax makes you feel fresh, liberated, FIERCE! It was time for my world to be a little more bourgeious. I had hit a dry spell of working 40 hours a week, no guy to call, and wanted to do something for ME. I DESERVED THIS.

I popped two Tylenol and headed to Dinkytown to feel like the Independant Woman Neyo remixed with Jamie Foxx...Next thing dontchaknow, I was laying on what felt like a doctor's table, dress around my waist, and being told to breathe in...It was when I saw the popsicle stick, gooey with a NATURAL soy-based substance, that I realized this was so UNnatural. First came the heat, then came the yank, and finally, the stars. The esthiologist tried to distract me with conversations of Hawaii. My stammers turned into yelps, "I heard in Oahu a gallon of milk costs ten BUCKS-FUCKERS, OH GOD!" Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. I was paying for excruciating pain. I was twitching because I DESERVED THIS?! Fresh? More like Big Baby Jesus RAW. I felt the opposite of liberated, I was under the command of Angelica, the slave driver. (these people must really dig S&M, the way they bark out). There was nothing fierce about bending my knees into acute angles. Ugh, I have fallen a victim to Vogue standards AGAIN. Twenty minutes later, I was left with a washcloth and azulene oil to pat myself down. As I counted my bill out in ones, I paused to wipe the sweat off my upper lip (whichIwouldwaxmyselfathomethanksbye), and shook my head at the next victim. Her eyes widened, and glazed over my counting, "Even strippers feel the pain? Oh. Em. Gee." (Actually, I have the ones because I'm a hairdresser, I was just trying to tell you to RUN BITCH-RUN!)

In my car, I fumbled for my parking validation, downed a bottle of water, and let the AC upskirt me. In the mirror, I saw my eyeliner had smeared, my baby hairs had formed a halo around my face, and I was still panting...I tilted the mirror down and looked at what I DESERVED. I kinda liked it. It WAS kind of adorable...desirable...definitely red....but maybe, worth it. Two days later, I'm fuzz free...Slick...And absolutely bourgeious. Will I wax again? Probably. Was the experience what I thought it would be? Hell to the NO. Way more painful....times 72. Lesson learned-feeling like Samantha Jones has very little to do with what her hooha looks like, but how she uses its POWER. Now. Either I need to get some action, or I'm walking around in a leotard like Lady Gaga.

Signing Off,

Anu

The Peanut Butter Brickhouse