Spa visits are rife with interesting conversational tidbits. In my own mind that is.
Now, I have, as most ladies do, a regular aesthetician.
I’ve found a waxer and polisher that I like, and I have been faithful to her for the past five years.
We know what to expect from one another. I drop my pants, and she efficiently goes about her business, with the soothing sounds of water and the pan flute flowing from the sound system.
Water and the pan flute don’t drown out the sound of screaming. That’s somewhat comforting, knowing the music isn’t a cover up for torture chambers, just an attempt to relax you as hot wax drips just millimeters away from your little girl.
Today my groomer was away. Gone. Not to be found. I was at the mercy of another woman, and my anxiety hummed up an octave.
As I spread my grand, gorgeous self across the waxing table, I began to wonder at all of the unspoken thoughts I have, and that my aesthetician must certainly have.
First of all, I always wear ugly undies. It is not desirable that the woman waxing my personality-below-the-belt find my gitch interesting or attractive.
Mainly I’m concerned that they my panties are old enough I won’t care if wax gets on them, and that they are clean and odourless.
If we’re honest with ourselves darlings, the only two reasons that we go to the spa are that we’re too lazy to do the work ourselves (’cause let’s face it, with a little practice any woman can keep her pubes groomed and her nails painted), and, it’s an hour or two long escape from our men and children.
It’s sad that having our pubic hair pulled out is a break from how hard we’re expected to work at home.
So today, with my legs spread open, the only work I do is hold up one side of my Wal-Mart panties as my groomer applies warm wax to the edge of the pleasure pit, and then mercilessly pulls all the hair out. Yah. Nice.
Her method is slightly different, and she’s muttering a bit. I’ve gone so long to the same Vietnamese owned spa that I’m convinced if my labia were to speak, they’d be fluent in Vietnamese slang. If I ever travel to that part of the world, I think I’ll just wear a dress and walk on my hands.
This goes on, until she assumes she’s balded me sufficiently in all the right places. I have a general sense that all is well in the valley of passion, and prepare to get up, and regain my dignity (aka put my pants back on).
Instead, she holds my shoulder down and offers a mirror. “Here. You check.” Pardon? Um… No.
That’s just a little to finicky and a bit kinky for my taste. Looking at my own lady bits in a mirror in this small space with another woman is like the B quality porn warm up to mutual masturbation.
Nah. No thanks. I’ll just take your word for it. I’m having someone come and check your work later on. With their tongue. I’ll let you know what they think.
Next time I’m not just walking in. I’ll be sure to book an appointment with my aesthetician – no mirror required.
We make our way over to the spa chairs, where there is a warm, bubbling spa waiting for my toesies.
There is no eye contact. We both pretend she hasn’t just seen my holiest-of-holies, and I relax as she buffs and polishes the less taboo bits.
There is no tip generous enough in my opinion for the women who do our dirty work.