Waxing Woes

About a month ago, before I donned my first bikini of 2012 in Florida at the pool and Wet 'n Wild theme park, I ventured my way to the local salon for a bikini waxing. Yikes! I have been waxed once or twice before, but like a year apart each time with no time for my body to grow accustomed to it, and this most recent excursion to have my hair ripped from my body was no more pleasant than the first time of waxing two days before my wedding.
Let's be clear, I do NOT enjoy waxing. (Who does? No.) I don't mind a hair cut, a pedicure, maybe someone doing my makeup, but feeling like the flesh is being peeled off of me in private locations of my being is a little difficult to endure!
For starters, you strip down and they give you a towel. It's small. What is it for? To cover yourself with and pretend you are going to be modest when they're just going to completely remove it and look at more of you than your gynecologist knows?
Now, they make you lay on your back at this awkward tilted angle which probably works just great for them so they can poke at you easier, but all the blood is slowly draining to your head as if you aren't already feeling a little light-headed at the thought of or experience of the pain.
Then comes the warm wax being slathered upon your skin like someone is spreading peanut butter on some bread. Ugh.
Following they usually put their popsicle stick of wax back in the warming wax container and I'm thinking, 'Is that the same popsicle stick and warming wax container that the lady before me used or do you burn everything and sanitize it and then use brand new equipment and supplies for me?'
Anxiety is in that tiny room of four walls and no ceiling. You are thinking about how if you cry out in pain or yelp or gasp after a ripping of hair from follicle that everyone getting their toes and finger nails painted and acrylliced is going to hear how you wussed out and couldn't handle a 15 minute waxing.
So they pat on the strips of whatever whiteness that goes on the wax and then without warning or awareness of what is coming, they peel that sucker off with a flick of their wrist and-BOOM-there is hair and gooey yellowy wax all over that nasty thing that used to be white and you are feeling pale and realize you are not breathing and completely tense in that creepster room.
One strip ripped suuuucks! But, don't worry, one is never enough. They have to do it like thirty times. And, if they missed a spot, they'll pluck ya. Ugh. Lord, help me is what I plead just thinking about it.
The lady doesn't talk to you as she touches your lady parts, or at least gets way too close for comfort in touching, and if she does attempt conversation, you might not be able to understand her broken English, thick accent, or will just mumble a brief response in effort to not let her take you off focusing on your pain.
The best part comes when you think you are "done".
They give you a mirror.
Yes.
A mirror.
Like when you're at the hair dresser and they want you to see the shape and style of your newly cut hairs and you hold it and they spin you around in the swivel chair and you smile cause the back of your head looks great and even though you never look at it, you're glad everyone else has a fantastic back of the head to look at.
So mirror in hand they ask you "how it looks". Please don't make me answer that question. Please.
I don't want to look. I don't want to have a Fried Green Tomatoes moment and get to know myself in uncomfortable ways. Uh uh, ladies!
Instead I awkwardly say it looks fine and she does a few more rips of flesh, plucks of follicles, and then leaves me feeling used and abused on the tilty table in the yucky room.
Then I get to walk out of the room and everyone knows what just happened to me and I keep my head down and try to pretend like they don't know but we both know that they do know and I spend ten minutes paying because their payment systems are always ancient and I leave a good tip because I hope that it will help pay for a brand new warming wax container and popsicle stick for next time.
And there you have it. My waxing woes. Those ooey gooey waxy unpleasant flesh-ripping follicle plucking joys of waxing....are they your woes too?