Image: All I wanted to do was get ready for summer…
This Saturday started off quite normally: a nice workout, a late lunch, a bit of shopping. And then things went terribly awry.
I walked into a small day spa I had read about on Yelp. I was not really worried about the events that were about to unfold – I had gotten bikini waxes a thousand times. It’s summer here; I am a recent transplant from the United States and glad to be avoiding winter/the polar vortex while all my friends are trapped in their teeny NYC apartments. Summer means wearing a bikini; summer means making sure you have all your grooming taken care of.
“The story of my first Brazilian wax.”
After a good twenty minutes of trying not to tense up/hold my breath/cry – you know, normal behaviour when you’re getting waxed – she was not done. At the time I remember thinking, “Jeez, this is taking so much longer than normal; she must be super thorough.”
If by ‘thorough’ you mean ‘completely removing all signs of life on Mars’ then you would be correct. In her thick Eastern-European accent, my waxer, Ivanka, says, “All gone.”
Her statement is quite ironic because as I stand up to re-clothe and realise something is missing. I look down; I am completely hairless.
I was utterly shocked because I was positive I'd said “bikini wax,” not “bald, I want to be completely bald like the day I was born.”
I was too traumatised to even say anything. My mind raced. Did I not specify that a tasteful landing strip would be great? Is this my fault? What was she thinking! How could she do this to me? Will it ever grow back? Am I going to be bald forever?
