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To Shave or Not to Shave Pt. II: A (Quite Literal) Exploration of Waxing

9 Jan

As promised, I’m back to continue my musings on my newfound obsession with hair.  Last week, I stuck to a general overview of all sorts of body hair, from the kind on your face and head to the sort on your legs.  However, this time I’ll be venturing into parts less known and even less talked about: the hair between your legs.

*True story: while writing this post in a popular coffee shop, a man came up to me. Our conversation went thusly:“What are you typing away about, sweetheart?” “I’m blogging!” “Oh?” He leaned in a little. “I like your scarf. Are you a fashion blogger?” “Nope! I’m writing about bikini waxes!” He choked on his coffee and I returned, quite satisfied, to my work.

Although you can get away with discussing shaving and waxing of innocuous body parts like eyebrows in polite conversation, pubic hair maintenance is a don’t-go-there kind of topic*.  You might as well mark it with a jagged, red X and write “Here be dragons” next to it (or at least “Here be landing strips,” “Here be vajazzling,” or any number of the bizarre things people do with their, er, lettuce groves**).   This made me insatiably curious, as taboo conversational subjects tend to do.  What kind of wax was used?  How much did it cost?  What was it like to be a salon technician and spend all day peeling hair off of people’s crotches?  Who that I knew got bikini or Brazilian waxes?  Was a bikini wax a gateway drug into harder stuff, like full-body waxing?  How did you avoid the awkwardness of stripping off your clothes and baring everything for a stranger?  What did the damn thing feel like?  And, most importantly, what compelled people to pay other people to apply hot wax to their genitals and then rip it off?

**I wondered a good deal about what to call the area to which a bikini wax is applied. The technical term would be ‘pubic region,’ but that sounds so unfunny and medical that I decided to call it a bunch of different things, some of them just as silly as ‘pubic region’ is dry.

I resolved that I would not leave Spain without answering this question.  And indeed, dear readers, I carried through on this resolution so that I could tell you all about it.  Here follows one woman’s maiden voyage into the waxing salon.

I had spoken with my friend Sarah, a waxing veteran, about my plan of attack.  She agreed to come with me as moral support – and potentially physical, should I be doubled over in agony.  Together, we chose a salon near the center of Valencia.  I strutted up to the counter, trying to look as if I had done this a hundred times before.  “I would like a wax,” I said in my it’s-obvious-she’s-not-from-here Spanish.

The man behind the counter pulled out an appointment book.  “We have an opening at 7:00.  Where?”

“On my…um…” It was only now that I realized I didn’t know the Spanish phrase for ‘bikini wax.’  I gestured at my crotch as if I were directing a plane to land there.  “Here.  I want it here.”

The man gave me a (justifiably) weird look.  “All…right.  We’ll see you at seven.”

Sarah and I frittered away two hours in Starbucks.  I kept biting my nails and twitching, wondering just what I’d gotten myself into.  When we came back, we were introduced to Leticia, the waxing technician, a woman in her late thirties with dyed-red hair, impeccable eyebrows, and a businesslike demeanor.

“So…this is my first time,” I said, imitating a nonchalant tone.

She took my arm.  “Your first time?  Are you scared?” she said in Spanish.

“Uh…a little,” I admitted.

“Don’t be.  I’m very good at what I do.  Go inside and strip down to your underwear.  And call me Leti.”

“Cool.  Um, can I bring a friend?” I pointed at Sarah, who was hovering in the doorway.

I got my second weird look of the day.  “Is she gonna hold your hand?”

“Hoping we won’t get to that point, but maybe.”

Leti grinned and shook her head.  “Yeah, she’s fine.”  She ushered us in and closed the door behind us.

I glanced around the room.  There was a massage table covered with a sheet, a bureau topped with neat stacks of paper strips, and a metal tray full of waxing apparatus.  A pot of greenish goo bubbled sinisterly in the corner.  I took off my clothes and shoved them in Sarah’s direction.  “Oh my god.  Oh my god.  Is she going to make me take off my underwear?”

***An awkward anecdote to add to this pile of awkward anecdotes: in Spanish, the word ingle means ‘crotch.’ The word inglés means either ‘English’ (as in the language) or ‘Englishman.’ When Leti asked if I wanted my ingle done, I tried to assure her that, sadly, I had no Englishman for her to wax.

“Probably not,” said Sarah soothingly, and patted my shoulder.  “Don’t worry.  You’ve got this, girl.  Go lie down.”

Leti knocked and entered a few moments later.  “Okay.  What do we want today?  A bikini wax or Brazilian wax?”***

Not a Brazilian,” I said, fervent.

She stirred the pot of goo – which was, as I had feared, the wax.  “And do you want any designs?  Hearts?  A letter?”

I briefly considered a ‘w’ for ‘why did I do this?’  “Er…no.  Just keep it normal.”

She began applying the wax to my skin in wide strokes.  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

I winced at the temperature of the wax.  “Yes.  Back in the States.”

Leti pursed her lips.  “Did he make you do this?”

“God, no.”

“Good.  Lots of men make their girlfriends do it here.”  She applied a strip of paper to the quickly-cooling wax.  “Ready?  It won’t hurt very much.”

I motioned for Sarah, who snorted and gave me her hand to grab.  I didn’t hold out very long, I thought.  “Grip your skin so it’s taut.  It hurts less that way,” said Leti.  I gripped.  She stripped.  It felt like one of Daenerys’ dragons from Game of Thrones had gotten caught between my legs and started belching flames while someone beat my nether regions with a brick.  I squeezed Sarah’s hand for dear life.

“See?” said Leti, grabbing the wax applicator again.  “That wasn’t so bad!”

“Right,” I gasped.

“So,” said Leti, brushing her angular, red bangs out of her eyes, “if you’re not doing this for your boyfriend, then why are you doing it?”

“So I can write a blog post about it.”  I tensed again, waiting for the rrrip of the waxing paper.  It came.  I tried not to whimper.

“Whatever makes you happy,” said Leti, sounding doubtful.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” asked Sarah.

“I did,” she said.  Her face fell.  “For three years.  But we just broke up.”

“That’s awful. You want to talk about it?” said Sarah, ever the therapist.

Leti did.  So we launched into a conversation about the reprehensible behavior of our various exes, especially hers, who had cheated on her.  I found it more than a little ironic that we were man-bashing (which is not a good thing to do, but you just go with the conversational flow when you have hot wax on your lady forest, trust me) while conducting the stereotype of ‘crazy girl things.’

By the time we had finished about ten minutes later, I had been denuded of a pretty big portion of what I normally keep around my southern soul patch.  Leti gave me a cream to apply to my stinging skin and left the room so I could get dressed.  I’m not sure why, since she had already seen way more than I show most people.  “Make sure to write something good about me on your blog!” she said over her shoulder.  (Which I have done, because she deserved it.)  Sarah and I left the salon a few minutes later, thanking her one more time.  Dusk was falling in Valencia, and the elaborate displays of Christmas lights in the main plaza were coming to life.

“So how do you feel?” Sarah asked.

“Better than I expected,” I admitted.  The pain was slowly seeping away.  “But Jesus, Sarah.  People do that on a regular basis?”

Which is, essentially, what I’m taking away from this experience.  Sarah explained to me that some people do it because they’re allergic to the metals used in most razor blades, or because their skin is so sensitive that shaving inflames it (which is her situation).  But for those of us who have no such aversion, I can’t imagine going back to the salon every three weeks for this treatment.    As I said in my last post, my feeling is that women and men should be free to do whatever they’d like with their body hair, and if that involves getting it all waxed off, then so be it.  However, I don’t like the idea of people doing it to conform to some standard of nether hairlessness.  The biological truth is that we grow hair down there.  Waxing will only remove it for a few weeks at most (oh, and have I mentioned that it’s agonizing?).  In addition, it’s expensive – I paid €15 for it, which is about $20.50.  If you wax once a month, which is less frequent than the recommended every three weeks, it adds up to $246 per year.  That’s a lot of money to pay just to keep your hedge trimmed.

I suppose this essay comes down to one question: would I do it again?  The answer: probably not.  Not unless I suddenly become an underwear model, an Olympic swimmer, or a porn star****.  Although I felt a little more like Adriana Lima afterwards, I also felt guilty about subscribing to typical feminine beauty expectations.  No matter where it grows, the hair we’ve got is a part of us.  I’m assistant directing the Vagina Monologues right now, and one of the characters says, “I realized that hair is there for a reason: it’s the leaf around the flower, the lawn around the house.  You can’t pick the parts you want.”  Or rather: you can, but you have to go to an awful lot of trouble to do it.  The kick-ass Balpreet Kaur, a Sikh woman who has a bit more facial hair than the average woman, also exemplifies the same notion in her reply to Reddit bullies when she wrote, “My attitude and thoughts and actions have more value in them than my body.”  And with that in mind, I’ll take a leaf from Balpreet’s book – at least in regards to waxing.

So, although I respect every person’s decision to do with their hair what they want, as I wrote last week, I don’t believe I’ll be engaging in any more wax-related bush-whacking, jungle-weeding, hen-plucking, or any of those other ridiculous euphemisms.  I’ll save my time for other things, like fighting dragons in Skyrim and reading McSweeney’s Internet Tendency articles until I pass out.

Read Pt. I here: To Shave or Not to Shave: The Cultural Aesthetics of Female Body Hair

****Hi, Mom!  I hope you’re not reading this!

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The Study of a Disassembled Room

20 Aug

Part of the Monday Musings collection

Trying to pack nineteen years of living in one city into a few boxes and duffel bags is more difficult than I had imagined.

I started cleaning out my bedroom a few days ago in preparation for moving to Charlottesville, where I’ll begin as a first year at the University of Virginia. Neatness has never been a strength of mine, and my drawers and closet brimmed with a jumble of ill-fitting clothes, books I hadn’t read in years, and mementos whose significance I couldn’t remember anymore. Adele’s honey-smooth voice poured out of my iPod speakers, filling the corners of my room with the lyrics of “Hometown Glory.” On the piles that topped my desk, I discovered a shirt whose hem I had half-altered a year ago, some stale-smelling Victoria’s Secret perfume (and to think, I used to scorn people who bought the stuff; apparently I own a bottle), and programmes from every theater production I had appeared in during high school. Wedged in my closet were a wealth of objects: old jewelry, half a pair of flip-flops. A clumsy painting of a rabbit from middle school. A gauzy purple shirt I had always admired but never worn. A Greek urn in miniature, its sides adorned with thickly-outlined men whose chins jutted like spears. A gift card to Barnes & Noble that I had never redeemed. In my nightstand drawer, I came upon heaps of yarn and dusty string from my knitting obsession from fourth grade. Next to it was a pile of shells, reminding me of my old obsession with conchology (when I was eight, I asked for nothing but mollusc shells for Christmas).Under my bed I found a binder full of old geography and Spanish tests from sixth grade. A picture on the front reminded me of the time when I refused to cut my hair and parted it exactly down the center so that blonde tendrils swept in front of my face, obscuring it.

I’ve never found it easy to distinguish between what I should keep – what truly holds significance – and what I should throw out. This week hasn’t made it any easier.

I used to be intensely proud of my book collection. Packed into a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that dominates my room are over three hundred books, ranging from Interview with a Vampire to Lolita to a few Star Wars tie-in novels. Yesterday, I sat down in front of the shelf with a few boxes in hand. I ruthlessly tossed any book I hadn’t read in two years into the bags, then carted them up to my dusty, dreamy attic. Then I ripped posters of Alexander McQueen and Iron & Wine from the walls. I bundled up bags of clothing I had bought but never worn.

I have dissected and neatly boxed up my Richmond years, which are all I’ve ever known. What I couldn’t bear to part with will either accompany me to college or has been tossed into the trash can. Waiting on the floor to be packed into the van on Friday are new sheets, cleaning supplies, a vacuum cleaner, a surge protector. On Saturday, I will cart them up to a 12′ by 11′ room in a city that is not Richmond. I will parse the walls from the floors from the standard-issue dorm furniture, learning the anatomy of this new place. I will construct photo montages and fresh arrangements of the books I’ve brought with me.

I will enjoy college. I’m not sad to live in Charlottesville. But nineteen years in one city are a lot to let go of.

* * *

And now for something completely different – I want to make a reeeaaaaal quick announcement about interviews with a few of my insanely talented writing acquaintances.  Rich Larson, who writes all sorts of snazzy speculative fiction, has been interviewed here at Underwords.  Peter LaBerge, the seventeen-year-old mastermind behind the glorious Adroit Journal, was similarly interviewed here on Figment.  They’re both wonderful writers, so take a gander at their words of wisdom!

And a wonderful Monday to the lot of you.  Thanks for stopping by!