First Entry for the Virgin Vignettes: A First Time For Everything Series
(The following excerpt is FICTIONAL and told from a first person account of a FICTIONAL character)… but I’m sure this is 100% how it goes…
I could feel my body start to tremble when I saw the neon sign. La Touche. Probably used a French name to make it sound more up-scale. Not that wax salons were a dirty little secret. They simply hovered on the side of unglamorous maintenance. The salon looked unassuming in the strip mall, tucked in between Quan’s Noodle House and some trendy, little maternity shop. I walked in, hoping to God I wouldn’t hear some poor soul screaming from a back room while some evil woman pulled a strip of hot wax from, down there.
“Hello. I’m here for my ba-bikini waxing,” I managed to stammer out before taking a deep breath.
“Oh. Have you had a waxing before?” the nice little receptionist asked. The fact that her face showed no trace of unwanted hair, I immediately felt put at ease. Bet they can make you as smooth as a baby’s bum here.
“Um, no,” I replied and watched the welcoming smile wipe right off her face. Christ, even she knew I was in for it.
“Alrighty. Well, what’s your name?”
“It’s… (Scared Shitless)… Uh, it’s Sally.”
“Follow me then, Sally.”
A few minutes later I found myself on my back on a bed, waiting for my wax connoisseur, Magda. After she introduced herself, told me she had been doing this for years and promised me *minimal* pain, I wondered how many beavers Magda had seen. Probably a lot. I suddenly felt embarrassed that she was going to see mine in its untamed glory.
“I-I meant to trim it before I came,” I suddenly blurted out. She just gave me a knowing smile, like everyone probably says that. I quickly realized I was going to have to put full trust in this stranger and leave my ladyhood in her capable hands. Much like you do when you go to the medi-clinic doctor whom doesn’t know you from a hole in the ground but is about to get real personal with you. Magda was like that – my Crotch Doctor.
She pulled out an album and handed it to me.
“Pick which design you’d like.” Design? Er, what? I wasn’t going for an Andy Warhol knock off for chrissake, I just wanted a cleaner look, a little off the sides. The album was like those catalogs you look through at the tattoo parlor to pick out a tribal design. Only this one was full of muff shots, hand sketched with precise detail. I had the choice of Triangle, Swirl, Razor Stripes, Half-Moon, Martini Glass, Postage Stamp, Brazilian or the popular yet simplistic, Landing Strip. I suddenly felt like I did when I was ten years old about to get my ears pierced. This smelled suspiciously of the same trick – pick out something pretty, followed by excruciating pain. When she realized I was blushing, she took the album from me and nodded.
“I will do something nice,” she offered. I wondered what that meant. Could she secretly pick out what would look best on me? Like those gals at the make-up counter do? I bet with her experience, Magda could pick out your muff art to match your personality… or your designer handbag.
“What about… Brazilian?” I asked. She gave me a look. That look that someone gives you when they’re really, really scared for you.
“You sure?” she asked. I nodded.
“Well, if I’m gonna run with the Brazilians, might as well go all the way, right?” I said nervously. I only half heard what she told me. Something that sounded like, hold still, breathe and no screaming.
Then the moment of truth arrived. Magda slapped on the wax, a little too close for comfort. To the point I was sure she was going to nick one of my fallopian tubes.
“Just relax, sweetie.” That had to be the warning shot. I clenched the pillow and repeated her instructions in my head. I knew a girl once who permanently lost her eyebrow when she had it waxed. I just hoped I wasn’t about to lose a labia.
Hold still. Hold still. Hold fucking still!
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkkkkkk!” I didn’t know if that came out of my mouth or hers. I opened my eyes. Magda didn’t flinch. Must’ve been mine. She didn’t even give me a chance to get my wits about me. Another glop of wax was slapped onto the other side. I suddenly fell into a pattern of breathing that was somewhere on the scale of giving birth and hyperventilating, trying to ready myself for another round of torture.
Hold. Fucking. Still.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Why did I pick the goddamn Brazilian!? The baldest of the bunch!
Six more agonizing strips and it was over. The snap of Magda’s latex gloves was a relief. It meant her time down there was done. I lifted my head off the pillow, scared to look, but I had to.
I was hairless. For the first time since middle school. What had I just done?
Magda seemed quite pleased with her work and held up a little hand mirror so that I could take a closer look. I just nodded and bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to supress the lingering pain. I was not going to cry in front of the Crotch Doctor. The proof of my puberty would grow back and thank God, the only thing that was missing was the hair.
“We’ll see you again in three weeks,” Magda said. Oh fuck. I would have to do this again if I wanted to maintain my new look.
And that was the tipping point.
Nope. I was done. The Brazilians could keep their gift to beach going women. I for one would accept the ridicule of an unkempt pasture and gladly leave the pain and torture to someone else.