This Tuesday, I, a twenty-something lesbian, got my first brazilian wax. I reached this decision after a great deal of deliberation — is it “un-feminist” to get a bikini wax? By paying someone to tear out my pubic hair, am I perpetuating pedophilic Eurocentric beauty standards? Will it hurt a lot and just lead to me getting a bunch of ingrown hairs? But eventually I decided that getting waxed is an experience, and I’ll try anything once.
I went to my high femme friend who knows everything about grooming and she refered me to her waxer, a six-foot-tall blonde woman with a thick Boston accent. When I arrived at the location, I went down the stairs to her basement-level storefront. Outside, there was a patio table on top of which were ten or twelve shelled peanuts that I was later told are for the birds. Her waxing studio is a simple but clean space, and she made me feel strangely comfortable about the fact that I was about to bear my vagina. In fact, when I lifted up my dress, I didn’t feel any shame. This was just my body, and she was just doing her job.
As she quickly and methodically tore the wax off of me, she asked me a lot of questions—Where was I from? What was I studying?—and pretty effectively kept me from focusing on my hairs being ripped out from their follicles. When she reached a particularly stubborn bit, she’d exclaim, “That’s a spicy-a-meatball,” and proceed to yank wax off of my pussy.
Maybe I have a high pain tolerance, but it didn’t hurt that much. I was surprised given all the horror stories I’ve heard about the excruciating pain of brazilians that I didn’t leave crying and waddling with a burning crotch.
I did balk when she told me to turn on my side and pull up my butt cheek — I knew it was coming, but it was such a vulnerable position, having someone look at my splayed asshole for the first time. But the shame dissipated; she was a professional who’d seen many assholes in her career, and mine was no different.
When she was done, I pulled my skirt down and my panties up and venmoed her $50 — a fair exchange, I thought, for the silky smoothness of my nether regions. She explained aftercare (don’t run a marathon) and sent me on my merry way.
As I emerged from the basement wax den, I was shocked to see that the whole ordeal had only taken 20 minutes or so. In that short amount of time, hair that had been on my body since puberty had vanished into thin air (or at least this woman’s trash can).
I went home like a champion, telling all my friends about the experience, bragging about the state of my pubic area in a way I never had before. A lot of people asked me for whom I’d gotten waxed, but I hadn’t gotten waxed for anyone, really. I’d gotten waxed because it felt like a life experience I needed. And I think it really was. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been ashamed of my body, especially the areas that we are told not to show anyone, the “no no square” as my kindergarten teacher called it. Spreading my legs in a nonsexual manner to a perfect stranger felt horrifying. I thought for sure my vagina would be weird and wrong and different and I would be forced to go home in shame. But when I actually got waxed and felt no shame whatsoever, I couldn’t help but wonder where this shame had come from to begin with.
People with vaginas are told that they are gross, fishy, and generally unpleasant. Our bodies often have inherent disgust associated with them, and it takes a lot of unlearning to feel comfortable with our natural bodies. Having my vagina treated with the professionalism of a hairdresser or manicurist made me realize that I need to accept and love my vagina, spicy meatballs and all.
[Image: Neon green and yellow striped underwear next to the shocked cat emoji.]
